


Eight Days

by BeeDaily



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2018-08-08 20:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7771438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeDaily/pseuds/BeeDaily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a week-long exhibition, professional Quidditch player James Potter encounters Lily Evans, Junior Quidditch Correspondent for the Daily Prophet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this for the Jily Trope Fest on tumblr, going for a nice Professional Quidditch Player/Reporter trope. Then it got really long and involved, so I've just sort of gone with it. It will eventually have some nice smut to it, but we'll get there when we get there. =D
> 
> This is dedicated to Ayesha, whose GENIUS line (“It was then James discovered that there’s no subtle way to remove your hand from someone else’s pants.”) really started all of this.

\+ + +

**DAY ONE**

            It all happens alarmingly quickly. One moment, he’s sprawled upon his chair, absentmindedly twirling his lanyard credentials about his finger, trying to muster up the enthusiasm to mingle at this deadly dull opening to-do for the week-long Quidditch recruitment exhibition…and in the next, someone strolls by, his bleeding lanyard gets caught, Quidditch reflexes have him grappling and lunging before thinking, and he somehow finds himself latched on to a stranger’s bum, no ifs-ands-buts-please-or-thank-yous about it.

             It is then that James discovers there is simply no subtle way to remove one’s hand from someone else’s pants.

            (Oh, bloody— _trousers_ , not pants. Thirteen months playing in the American League, and suddenly he’s joined the ranks? If he survives this, he’s giving himself a proper welcome home baptismal in the Thames, that’s for certain. Diseases be damned, it’s the only way.)

            (Fortunately, judging by the murderous look the trousered redhead is giving him now, there seems a strong possibility he won’t survive long enough to brave the dunk.)

             Bugger.

            “Shit—so terribly—that—I wasn’t—see—”

            “Get your _hand_ ,” the redhead grits, “off my _arse_.”

            James’s hands immediately fly upward, splayed and locked above his head. “Right. Yes. So really, really— _terribly_ sorry. Honestly. Utterly accidental.”

            “You _accidentally_ grabbed my arse?”

            It’s a fair point. “Well,” he begins slowly, considering, “more precisely, I suppose I was _purposely_ swinging my credentials, you _unassumingly_ passed on by, it _accidentally_ caught on your pocket, I very _thoughtlessly_ lunged for it, with the _accidental_ conclusion that I found myself gripping your arse and not my trusty lanyard still swinging along back there. See?”

            She twists to look. Flickers her gaze back to him shrewdly, then glances down again as if to confirm that, yes indeed, his official credentials _are_ still dangling back there along her bum, the lanyard clasp cleverly caught along the top of her rear pocket. She yanks the lanyard loose, but doesn’t hand it back.

            “Accidental?” Her lips purse. “You could’ve planned that.”

            “ _All_ that? I’m simply not that coordinated.”

            Or at the very least, it would have taken significant effort on his part.

            However….well, now that she’s looking more dubious and less murderous, he can take a moment to admit that if he _had_ been looking to pull such a barmy caper, the witch before him very likely could’ve been his desired target. She was young and pretty, with the red hair he’d noticed immediately and eyes a bright green he’d never quite seen before. The aforementioned trousers were paired with a flowing white top, and though he would have put his hands against a boiling cauldron before putting them on her again unasked, he found himself very intrigued by the prospect of being asked.

            Very, _very_ intrigued.

            Even as she snorts.

            “Not that coordinated?” Her arms cross over her chest. “You’re a professional _Quidditch_ player.”

            “Well, now how do you know that?” James matches her pose. “Not just players at this exhibition, is it? I could be a wily broom salesman. A pitch groundskeeper. A lovable but ultimately uninvited fan, snuck into the festivities to catch glimpses of my favorite seekers.”

            In silent answer, the redhead lifts his errant credentials.

            **JAMES POTTER  
** _Chaser, Fitchburg Finches_

            Right then.

            “Touché,” he says, and is gifted with his very first reluctant smile for the effort. He leans closer. “Very astute…LILY EVANS, _Daily Prophet_.”

            Her credentials are hanging neatly and correctly about her neck, over her crossed arms. He does not stare at her chest area any longer than is necessary.

            (Which is admittedly a few lingering seconds longer than it takes to read her name.)

            (Her smirk says she notices this.)

            “Astute enough,” she replies. She twirls his lanyard around her finger. “A bit disappointed too, though.”

            “Disappointed?”

            “Mm-hm.” She catches the lanyard in her hand. “I suppose I imagined the bloke who broke the American League’s single game scoring record last year and is now here as Puddlemere’s alleged favorite recruit would have a _bit_ more finesse, no?”

            James stops, blinks.

            “Oh.” His arms drop to his sides. “You… _know_ me.”

            She shrugs. “It’s my job.” Then she smiles—a wide, genuine, humor-filled smile that makes her eyes light up and his stomach flip. “A job you’ve just made _exceptionally_ easier, actually. Fancy this headline? ‘JAMES POTTER: CHASER, LIAR, PERVERT’?”

            “Oy. That’s ‘CHASER, _DISEMBLER, ACCIDENTAL_ PERVERT’, thanks.” He smiles at her, too. “Libel’s still a thing, yeah?”

            She laughs—a lovely laugh. “Yeah, I reckon it is.” She dangles his lanyard out to him. He extends a hand, and she drops the credentials into his waiting palm. “Save your hands for the Quaffle, mate, and off unsuspecting witches.”

            “No promises,” James says.

            “And watch that Porskoff Ploy drop tomorrow morning.” She turns. “A _bit_ sloppy during that last match against Haileybury, wasn’t it? Puddlemere won’t be impressed.”

            James frowns. “My Porskoff Ploy is perfection.”

            All right, so maybe he’d botched _one_ Ploy during that last match with Haileybury.

            Two at most.

            Really.

            Lily waves. “Good luck.”

            As she walks away, James calls out, “Will you be there tomorrow morning? At the match?”

            She glances over her shoulder. “It’s my job. Remember?”

            Then she disappears into the crowd.


	2. Day Two

\+ + +

**DAY TWO**

            James plays—if he does say so himself—rather  _spectacularly_  the next morning.

            It’s a grueling match, three hours long and significantly more competitive than anything termed “exhibition” really ought to be. It’s been ages since he played on a proper British pitch, and it feels like home. Perhaps the comfort helps. With not one, not two, but  _three_  perfectly executed Ploys on the record (and a 70 point scoring spree to boot, thanks very much), he reckons he can safely take a deep breath for what feels like the first time in hours. (Days. Weeks.  _Months_.) He’s not delusional enough to imagine himself in the clear—this is merely the first hurdle down in a punishing sprint—but stepping out of the locker rooms now, fresh and clean and  _humming_ with victory, he can’t say he’s not properly chuffed about the glorious start all the same.

            If he squints, he can just barely make out that Puddlemere offer hovering ever-closer in the distance.

            If he just reaches out…

            _Don’t jinx it, mate. Remember what happened last time._

            Right. There’s that, of course. But—

            “Nice match, pervert.”

            James swings around. His eyes flicker about, far more eager than one might expect when responding to a moniker like “pervert,” but then he knows what will likely follow it…and with looks like hers, she is not difficult to spot. Coming round from a nearby concession stand, she gives a little wave as she moves toward him, her press credentials hanging visibly around her neck.

            She is very nearly smiling.

            He very nearly smiles back.

            He’d skipped the press line after the match—his usual avoidance technique, though for the first time he could remember, he’d done so with a twinge of possible regret. He would admit to not a single bloody soul that he’d gone back to his hotel room the night before and had immediately called for a house elf, ordering the poor thing to scrape together as many recent issues of the  _Daily Prophet_  as could be found. He would also not admit to the hours spent scouring through every single sport section of those recovered issues, searching for the now familiar byline:

            LILY EVANS  
_Jr. Quidditch Correspondent_.

            He’d found a handful of them—mostly generic recaps; a few player profiles; one longer commentary piece on Appleby’s recent penalty scandal, and the rise of dirty fouls in the European circuit.

            Her writing was sharp, clever, and she talked Quidditch with a knowledge and blunt honesty that had him laughing and cringing nearly at the same time. When he’d run out of articles, James had been genuinely disappointed.

            Had been even more genuinely disappointed when he hadn’t spotted her in the press box before the match.

            Didn’t quite realise just _how_  much until now.

            “ ‘Nice’?” He scoffs as she approaches. “Come now, Miss Reporter.  _Three_ perfectly performed Ploys? Seventy points? You’ve got better adjectives than that, I reckon.”

            “Decent,” is what she offers instead, stopping in front of him. She ticks off a few more. “Competent? Proficient? Adequate?”

            “ _Adequate?”_

            “Fine. Above-average.  _Maybe_.”

            “I’ll take it,” he says, and Merlin strike him down if doesn’t feel juvenile, fluttery butterflies unfurling in his stomach, like he’s twelve years old and giddy to hold her hand.  _Bloody hell_. “I didn’t see you earlier. Before the match. In the press box.”

            Her eyebrows rise.

            “Looking for me, were you?”  When he flushes lightly and begins to pander excuses, she laughs. “I didn’t see  _you_ earlier. After the match. In the press line.”

            “I never do press lines. Not if I can avoid it.”

            “Right. About that.”

            “About what?”

            “I have a proposition for you.”

            _Proposition._

            _Yes, I will snog you until we can’t breathe. Touch you until you scream. Lick you from top to bottom and then—_ James clears his throat.

            “What kind of proposition?” he asks.

            Her smile is quick. “The sort you definitely should agree to in return for my magnanimous excusal of your groping me yesterday.”

            _Groping. Fondling. Writhing. Panting. Fucking_ —

            “Arguable. But I’m listening.”

            (Barely.)

            “I want to do a story,” she announces. “On you.”

            “Me?”

            “Yes.”

            He squints dubiously. “Like CHASER, LIAR, PERVERT?”

            She laughs again. “No. A real story. A profile. Though I retain the right to revert back to PEVERT if you refuse me.”

            “I think they call that blackmail.”

            “Arguable. But I’m willing to negotiate.”

            He wants to smile. Almost does. Up until this point, he’s rather been of the mind that Lily Evans, Jr. Quidditch Correspondent, could ask him to fetch her the moon, and he very well might immediately get down to the business of procuring it for her.

            But the word “story” sets his hackles up, clicks his reflexes on. The “no” is there on his tongue, comfortable and automatic. He’d grown up in a prominent pureblood family, the sort that lived and died by the idea that press was for charity plugs and obituaries, and the rest was just gossip and drivel. It was why he didn’t do press lines or give interviews, even though he was hardly the type to shy away from attention. Even though part of his job very nearly required it. It was just the way things were.

            You do not fly a broom while intoxicated.

            You do not eat paste.

            You do not willingly give stories to the press.

            (Even very, very pretty members of the press, who were hardly asking for the moon here, were they?)

            Still, he hesitates.

            “I don’t give interviews,” he says, the apology already in his voice. “I never have done—”

            “I know,” she says quickly, clearly expecting this. She takes a step closer. “But that’s the point, isn’t it? That you’ve never done. But you should. Especially now. With me. I’m very good, you know.”

            “Very good?” James lets out a choked scoff. “You called Gleason Glyffs ‘highly overrated and unequivocally near-sighted’.  And that man’s a bloody national treasure!”

She blinks, surprised.

            “What…you…read my article?”

            _Every bloody one I could get my hands on._ “I read. And I play the sport. Sort of my job too, isn’t it?”

            “Suppose,” she murmurs, and James would be hard-pressed not to notice that her cheeks have gone a bit pink now, too. But from what? Embarrassment? Pride? Pleasure? “Though I do still stand by that,” she affirms. “Glyffs is getting old, and everyone knows it.”

            “Yes, but you don’t _say_ it.” He runs a hand through his hair—hears his mum scolding _don’t fidget with that mop, you aren’t making it any better—_ and fists some errant strands. “If you can say that about _him_ , what’ll you say about _me_?”

            “Only the truth,” she insists, though that’s less comforting than one might hope. She’s a witch on a mission though, and James grudgingly respects that. Especially when she places a hand—one cool, firm, delicately long-fingered hand—imploringly on his arm. “Look, I know we don’t know each other well. I know you don’t like press. Understandable. But just think about it, yeah? Even in that Glyffs article, was I ever _truly_ unfair? Unnecessarily harsh? I’m not a scandal chaser. I’m not looking for a scoop—I’m looking for a story. And you have to admit—James Potter, returned from America, courting and being courted…you’re the most interesting thing happening at this otherwise dull exhibition, and it’d be a bloody shame not to pay service to that. Plus, if you truly want Puddlemere—”

            “I never said I want Puddlemere.”

            Lily gives him a look. “Fine. You’ve never said. But if you _did_ , you know the type of players they go for. It’s more than just your performance on the pitch. They want people they can sell to their fans. And your air of mystery is only going to take you so far.”

            James pulls a face, but has to admit—she isn’t _entirely_ wrong. Professional Quidditch is never a game played solely on the pitch. He’s been told such things before. His agent, Merlin love him, had tolerated James’s press reluctance up to a point, but he’d been dropping hints lately too. Especially now, with Puddlemere potentially on the line.

            And James _did_ like her writing. She was fair—blunt, but fair. And the idea of reading what she truly thought about him…

            _Don’t make business decisions with your cock, Potter, for fuck’s sake_.

            But it wasn’t just his cock. His brain was considering it, too. And his gut was already on board.

            _Bloody hell_.

            “Look—”

            “There’s this perfectly dodgy little dive bar a few blocks from here,” Lily says, cutting him off. “We’ll go. I’ll buy you very cheap beer or rubbish-tasting alcohol. We’ll eat stale bar food. What’s on the record, off the record…entirely up to you. I won’t force you to talk about anything. But I’ll likely write the story even without you, and I’d _really_ prefer if it were with you. So say yes. Please.”

            “Will I get to read it before it goes to press?” James asks.

            She pauses, considering this.

            “No,” she finally decides. “That wouldn’t be quite fair. But I won’t blindside you, either.”

            He already feels a bit blindsided, actually. And a bit like vomiting.

            _Time to make a choice, you wanker._

            “What’s it called?”

            “What’s what called?”

            “The dodgy dive bar.”

            Immediately, she lights up. “You’ll do it, then?”

            “Yes.” _Merlin help me_. “But first dictate—CHASER, LIAR, PERVERT. Off the record.”

            She laughs, clapping her hands together in delight. “Yes, yes, yes. Off the record. Fine.”

            “And don’t make me sound like a ponce.”

            “I’ll only make you sound like a ponce if you _are_ a ponce.” She shoots him a look. “Are you a ponce?”

            James sighs heavily. “Probably.”

            He’s already half-regretting this, has eight proper excuses on hand to skive out of it, and isn’t quite sure he’s keen on the fact that seven of those excuses fly right out of contention the second she tilts her head, smiles, and says, “I don’t think so.”

            _Trouble. I’m in so much trouble._

            “Cornish Pixie.”

            “Sorry?”

            “The name of the dodgy dive bar,” she says. “It’s called The Cornish Pixie.”

            James chokes out a laugh. “Bloody hell. That _does_ sound like a dive.”

            “See? I’m very honest.” _And driving me mad_. “Eight, then? Meet you there?”

            _Meet you anywhere._ “Yeah, eight.”

            “Perfect.”

            And as she walks away, James thinks, _So much trouble._


	3. Day Three

\+ + +

**DAY THREE**

            True to promise, The Cornish Pixie is the most properly dodgy dive bar James has encountered in ages. With paint peeling off the walls, rickety stools lining the few shabby wooden tables left standing, and a handful of aging bar-huggers who appear as if they may have very well first hunkered down for a pint around the time of the 1472 Goblin Rebellion, the locale delivers on all counts. James feels at once delighted, and vaguely in danger.

            Though frankly, he feels decidedly _more_ in danger when he inquires— _politely_ , one last time—for Lily Evans, Jr. Quidditch Correspondent, to explain how her equally dodgy recording contraption works.

            (Admittedly, it is the fourth time he’s asked.)

            (Hardly his fault though, is it? The ruddy thing was wonky as hell, and who knew someone could look so bloody gorgeous while also looking so bloody homicidal?)

            (Proper distracting, that. On several levels.)

            “You’re not serious,” is what she says, with the look that adds, _I may kill you if you are_.

            “Once more,” James implores, quickly, beseeching. He’s testing his luck and is painfully aware of it. It’s already half-past. They’re seated alone at the far end of the bar, perched close enough together for quiet conversation, though not necessarily to touch (if one was so inclined). They’d secured beverages from a faded-looking barmaid who seemed to have more lipstick on her teeth than on her mouth, and who had greeted Lily by name. The whole scene is about as casual and unobtrusive as an interview is likely to get, and Reporter Lily has done her due diligence—explained everything slowly, numerously, and even somewhat patiently (the first two times).

            Everything ought to be in order. But James still can’t help eyeing the recorder on the bar uneasily. He thinks about what’s coming—now, later, tomorrow… _bollocks_. What was it…?

            He clears his throat. “Tap with _incipere_ to start, and...?”

            Lily touches her wand to the device. “ _Sisto._ ”

            Instantly, the tape spools in the contraption quit spinning.

            Fuck. Right. _Sisto_. He’d known that.

            Green eyes narrow on him. “Are you all right?” she asks. “The recorder was meant to make you _more_ comfortable, _more_ in control, not less. I can just jot notes if you’d prefer—”

            “No.” James shakes his head. “I’m fine. It’s fine. _Incipere. Sisto_. Have it.” _Not fine. Don’t have it_. “I’m ready.”

            “Ja—Mr. Potter—”

            He grimaces. “Bloody hell, no. You had the right of it. James. Please.”

            “Fine. James.” She says it quickly— _James—_ and he likes the way it sounds, her Northern accent slipping in toward the front. But her next words aren’t as pretty. “It’s…been a long day. You’re likely tired. We can reschedule. Or…if you’re reconsidering—”

            “No. It isn’t that.” _A long day._ “My day was fine.”

            “All right.”

            “It _was_.”

            “I said all right.”

            Yes, she _said_ it, but she’s not thinking it. James knows what she’s thinking, what’s left lingering in the unspoken void.

_All right…but we both know that’s not true. Your play was off this morning. Greta Moors scored sixty points while you flew out your arse and watched. And with Puddlemere arriving tomorrow—_

            No. She doesn’t know about Puddlemere. James reckons not, anyway. But he does. He knows. And he can’t bloody well manage to forget it, even for an evening, which is just enough time to cock this all up.

_Shit shit shit shit._

            “I’m fine. I’m ready.” Defiant, he touches his wand to the dodgy contraption. “ _Incipere_.”

            The spools begin spinning again.

            Her eyebrows rise, but Lily doesn’t stop the machine.

            James feels momentarily victorious.

            She sighs. “All right. Let’s start, then. Your name?”

            “My name?”

            “For the recorder,” she explains. “We start with basics.”

            “Oh. Right. Er. James.”

            “Potter.”

            “Yes. James Potter.”

            “And you’re…”

            “…what?”

            She laughs. “Your _age_.”

            “Oh.” He flushes. “Twenty-four.”

            She nods. “Only child, yes? Born and raised in Kent?”

 _How does she know that?_ “Er. Yes. Just me and my parents. In Kent. Near Dover.”

            “You learned to play there?”

            “Quidditch?”

            “Yes, Quidditch.”

            “Right. Of course. Obviously. Yes.”

            “Tell me about that. Why Quidditch?”

            “ _Why_ Quidditch?”

            When he doesn’t answer further, she waves a noncommittal hand. “When did you learn? Did you take to it immediately?”

            But James is still caught on the first question. _Why_ Quidditch? “Er…dunno. I’ve always played, seems like. My dad had it on the wireless. I liked to fly. Always have done.”

            “Did he teach you?”

            “Teach me what?”

            “To fly.”

            “My dad?”

            “Yes.”

            “Oh. Yes.”

            “And to play?”

            “Quidditch?”

            “Yes, Quidditch.”

            “Right. Er. Yes.”

            She doesn’t reply to that one, just sits and stares expectantly at him, waiting. After a moment, James leans in toward the recording contraption and adds, uselessly, “I was young. I think.”

            Silence.

            With a sputtering, incredulous laugh, Lily touches her wand to the recorder. _“Sisto_.” She groans. “Merlin’s beard, you are _rubbish_ at this!”

            James is quite certain he’s never been so red. “I’ve never done it before!”

            “Never what? Spoken like a human?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “You managed it quite well yesterday.”

            “That was different.”

            “How?”

            “I don’t know. It wasn’t so…official. Difficult.”

            “They’re basic questions!”

            James scowls. “They’re not _basic_. ‘Why Quidditch’? I don’t bloody well know _why_. Why Quidditch for _you_?”

            She purses her lips, her nose scrunching slightly. She does that often, James notes, the lips bit. And there’s a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose that’s almost endearing. She lifts her drink—vodka soda, despite the fact that the liquor reeks like rubbing alcohol, even from here—and takes a slow sip. She pulls a slight face at it, but otherwise continues to regard him silently.

            After a long moment, she drops the drink back down to the bar and straightens.

            “All right,” she says. “Let’s try it this way, then.” She touches her wand back to the recorder. “ _Incipere._ ”

            The spools move again. But before James can say anything, _she_ begins talking.

            “I’m Muggleborn,” is what she starts with, simply, matter-of-factly. She pauses for a lingering second on it, seems to search his face for some kind of reaction. But other than a vague sense of surprise (—and clarity. Dodgy _Muggle_ recording contraption. He ought’ve known), he’s mostly just disorientated by the abrupt shift in roles. The moment passes; she continues. “Getting my school letter…it was this big, strange, _fascinating_ thing. An entirely new world I’d been dropped into, and I hardly understood any of it. And even before I was enmeshed enough to realise that there were some people who questioned my place there, I questioned it, too. New things are frightening.”

            “Of course,” James says. Then, firmly, “And some people are fools.”

            She shrugs. “They are.” She takes another sip of her drink. “I got to school. It was so… _much_. Magical and wonderful, of course, but also terribly foreign. There seemed a never-ending list of things I didn’t know, and I’ve always been the sort who is _desperate_ to know. Everything. Anything. But it was like pulling at an unspooling thread. So I quickly became rather desperate for something familiar to cling to.” With a pointed look in his direction, she adds, “I’d always been a fan of sport.”

            Suddenly, James realises what she’s about.

            He starts to smile. “Why Quidditch.”

            She taps her nose, spot-on. “Why Quidditch.”

            He laughs, feeling suddenly surprised and enchanted, and she goes on. “I didn’t understand much, but I could understand Quidditch. Classes were hard, people were confusing, but sport…It was concrete, something I could learn. Game rules. Stats. Club histories. Fan trivia. I spent _hours_ immersed in books, scouring the _Prophet_ ’s sport sections, listening to the wireless, watching the school matches. It was easy. A universal uniter. A comfort.” She pauses. “I watched you.”

            “In Fitchburg?”

            “No. At Hogwarts.”

            James’s brow furrows. They never played school matches on the wireless. “What do you mean?”

            She tilts her head, smiling.

            “When I was there.” Her freckles wrinkle with amusement. “Where did you think I went to school?”

            James freezes. _No._ “You didn’t go to Hogwarts.”

            “Of course I did.”

            “No. _I_ went to Hogwarts. You couldn’t have done. You didn’t.”

            She laughs. “I was in your _house_. A year below.”

            “You were _not_.” He is insistent now, outraged. He goes through his mental list—the witches in the year below him, faint but vaguely present, no Lily among them—and revolts. “You did not go to Hogwarts,” he says, like it’s a personal offense. “You couldn’t have done. I’d have remembered you.”

            “Oh?” Her smile turns impish. “Would you now?”

            Because he is an intelligent wizard, and she’s a clever witch, and because there is very little doubt in his mind that she doesn’t feel—or can’t at least _acknowledge_ —this strange, brimming-with-something thread growing between them, he simply stares mutinously at her and answers, “Yes.”

            She only laughs again, clearly delighted.

            James does not feel delighted. He feels indignant, foolish.

            Mostly, he feels strangely cheated.

            “You can’t—”

            “Oh, fine. _Stop_.” She waves off his protests, still laughing. “I _did_ go to Hogwarts. You can quit griping about that. But I left after third year, so likely just before youthful James Potter had a mind to notice such things, hm?”

            Youthful James Potter had always been keen on older birds, so perhaps. But the whole thing still didn’t sit well. “You left school? Why?”

            She doesn’t answer, merely takes another sip of her drink and watches him silently.

            James frowns. It doesn’t make sense. Leave Hogwarts? Why would someone leave school? Never mind at the end of their third year, barely fourteen, a Muggleborn especially, not even—

            _Shit_.

            A year below him. She said she was a year below him.

            Which made the end of her third year the end of his fourth.

 _Shit_.

            “The train attack.” The words come out terse, brittle. He cannot possibly feel like a greater arse. “The end of your third year…the year of the attack.”

            Lily nods. “My parents didn’t understand much of where I went off to every year, but they certainly understood ‘Your daughter’s in hospital, and children like her are dead.’ ”

            James’s stomach sinks. “You were…”

            “Fine, ultimately,” she says, motioning about her as if to say, _obviously_. “But after…my parents were terrified. Adamant. By the time I was well enough to plead and argue, the decision had already been made. I wasn’t going back.”

            “But everything was fine after that,” James argues. “There weren’t any more attacks.”

            Lily gives him a look. “ ‘Fine’ is relative. And we couldn’t know there wouldn’t be.”

            She’s right, of course. James knows she’s right. And even so, he has to fight back the urge to argue further, pointlessly, with damning foresight, years later. He isn’t ignorant enough not to realise he was lucky; he viewed his years at school through privileged, rose-coloured glasses. For him, Hogwarts had always been a haven, his place there expected and protected. Even with the world outside of the Scottish castle brewing with unrest, his life hadn’t much been affected.

            Until that trip back from school at the end of his fourth year. When a group of Death Eaters had boarded the Express, out for blood.

            James remembers little of it now, truthfully. It was flashes—the lights going out; the murmured sounds of people screaming; confusion and adrenaline and dread. He’d left his compartment with his mates, intent on helping, fighting, but had ultimately ended up barricaded in another with a group of sobbing first-years and the food trolley woman—Margaux, she was called. His mum still sent her a card every Christmas—until the whole thing had been over.

            Three students had been killed. All Muggleborns. Dozens more had been injured.

            James knew there had been students who hadn’t come back to school that next September. Maybe he’d even known one of them had been a Gryffindor. The castle had been hushed and maudlin those first few months, but children were resilient. They may have been officially at war outside the castle, but inside, life had returned mostly to normal.

            For him, anyway.

            Lily Evans had clearly not been so fortunate.

            “I’m sorry,” he says.

            Lily shakes her head. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

            “For not realising. Being a prat.” He runs a hand through his hair. “What did you do after that? For school?”

            “Muggle school, to please my parents,” she tells him. “But I had a magical tutor, as well. Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall helped with it. I had to get all sorts of bothersome clearances from the Ministry. Never fell behind, though.” She shoots him a smug look. “Took six N.E.W.T.s, in fact.”

 _“Six?”_ He whistles. “Right proper swot, are you?”

            “Definitively,” she preens. He laughs, watching as she smiles, her finger slowly stroking along the rim of her glass. The other hand twirls with the ends of her hair, and James is a bit captivated by the girlish simplicity of it. Of all of it. Of her. “Even locked away, Quidditch was something I was able to keep up with, a stringy tether to the Wizarding World. Sometimes it seemed like my only connection to this life I’d barely even gotten to try. And once I graduated, my parents couldn’t much control it anymore. I took a stand, moved out, got a crap flat in rotten neighbourhood, and a rubbish job pushing post at the _Prophet_. I studied Quidditch, worked my arse off, battled my way into a proper paid writing position, found a _slightly_ less crap flat…and here we are.” She spreads her arms, _the world is my cauldron_. “Present day.”

            “Why Quidditch,” James says again, full-circle.

            Lily lifts her drink, clinks it against his. “Why Quidditch.”

            Then she places her drink down, and touches her wand to the recorder. “ _Sisto_.”

            James starts. He had forgotten it was on.

            “See?” she says. “Easy.”

 _You’re easily extraordinary_ , he wants to say, and would mean it, absolutely; feels it brewing in his chest and rushing through his veins like an instant high, like flying. But the words get caught in his throat, too much, too fast. Instead, shaking his head, he laments, “I can’t do that.”

            “Of course you can.”

            “I’m not that interesting.”

            “I disagree.” And there’s something in the way she says it—strongly, unequivocally, and yet still fidgeting absently with her drink—that makes James watch her harder. Their eyes meet. He feels the rush once more. The brimming-with-something thread yanks hard and firm, fairly vibrating.

 _Extraordinary_ , James thinks again. And: _I want to kiss her._

            But he can’t kiss her. She’s the press. He’s the subject. It’s all tangled up and they’ve got no place to go. And the reality of that is more bloody nerve-wracking than any rubbish interview could ever even attempt to be, isn’t it?

            Bugger it all. The least he can do is give her a proper interview. Extraordinary deserves better. _She_ deserves better.

            So he sighs, touching his wand to the recording device. “ _Incipere_.”

            She smiles. Bright. Happy.

            And so it begins.

            Well—sort of.

            Truthfully, he’s still rather rubbish at it. She has to resolutely ban one-word answers, ask him four different leading questions before he properly understands what she’s looking for, and poke at him when he prematurely fades into silence, but as one question leads to another, one story and then the next—an hour, two hours—he slowly grows more comfortable with it. She is easy to talk to. She’s charming and humourous and his instincts were right yesterday: good at her job. They chat about his early years, about Kent and Mimsy, his house elf, and Bludger, his sour-faced cat. She asks about his time playing at Hogwarts, then the move into minor clubs straight from school—first with Appleby’s minor team, then Puddlemere’s (which he brushes by quickly, deliberately, a bit clumsily)—before he’d signed on with Fitchburg. He tells her about America, the things he’d missed, the ones he hadn’t. When he mentions his mates (“Hard to miss them, really. One or the other was always crashing on the sofa.”), she jumps on it.

            “I remember you lot from school,” she says. “Keen on blowing things up, weren’t you?”

            James holds up his hands, guilty. “Poor impulse control. No one will tolerate us but each other. Builds dependency, that.”

            “And frightful loyalty, it seems.”

            He tilts his head in question.

            She rifles through her bag, coming out with a folded slip of parchment. “I owled one of them for a comment for the article this morning.” She passes the parchment over to him. “This is what I got back.”

            James flips the note open. In a very thick, familiar scrawl, two words and a signature fill the page:

 **FUCK OFF.  
** **-SB**

            James snorts loudly.

            “You were better off trying Remus or Peter,” he advises, handing the parchment back. “They’d at least bother to be polite. Likely you would’ve gotten the same response from Sirius even in person.”

            “Oh?” Her chin dips coquettishly. “You don’t reckon I could dazzle him with my good looks and charming wit?”

            “Reckon I’d kick him in the bollocks if he had the mind to notice either,” James grumbles, without thinking.

            Lily’s eyebrows immediately shoot up.

 _Fuck fuck fuck_. “Because it’s unprofessional,” he fumbles, swiftly, ineptly. “Hitting on the press. Very bad form. Very, very bad.”

            “Right.” Her lips press together. Is she laughing? Angry? “ _Much_ better to fondle their arses at first meeting, yeah?”

            “Oi!” James jabs an accusatory finger. “ _Sisto._ Off the record!”

            Lily drops her forehead to the bartop, giggling.

            James closes the topic of his mates (and any mention of fondling, thanks. A wizard can only take so much, for Merlin’s sake) with the fact that they’ll all be coming to the session Day Six, when the exhibition officially opens to the public. Lily asks if his parents will be there as well, and James shakes his head.

            “I didn’t tell them it’s open to the public,” he admits, a bit of the familiar guilt seeping in. “Makes me a rubbish son, of course, but…well, they’re older. Traveling is a hassle, even just from Kent. And…well, frankly, I get a bit anxious when I know they’re watching.”

            “Really?” She squints, considering him. “That surprises me. It’s not a comfort, knowing they’re there?”

            “Er, no. That’s…I mean—don’t get me wrong. I love my parents. They’re lovely. They’ve spoiled me rotten and let me do whatever I like and have never said mum about it. They’re _always_ there. But maybe that’s the point. Trying to please them…”

            “I imagine they’d be pleased whether you won a World Cup, or were selling cold butterbeers at one,” Lily says. “That’s the way of adoring parents, isn’t it?”

            “Likely. But I reckon that might make it worse.”

            “I get that.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Sure. Having no bar requires you to set the bar yourself. And you’re so grateful they’ve allowed you that, so desperate to be worthy of it, that you’ll naturally set it higher than anyone else ever would have done. So no expectations become impossible expectations.”

            He’s never managed to put it into words before. But _yes_ , exactly, _that_.

            “ _Yes_. Though I suppose, there _is_ this thing—” He stops. _Shit_. Flushes. “Er, never mind.”

            But Reporter Lily has spotted an opening, and pounces. “Not never mind. What thing?”

            “It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

            “I like stupid,” she says. “Stupid is my favorite.”

            James hesitates. It really is so foolish. Embarrassing. Irrational. But she’d understood that last bit, when he wasn’t certain any other person really could, and they’re talking about his parents, and Quidditch, and she’s smiling in that way she smiles and it just rather came out before…and she _would_ likely find it hilarious—sport superstitions and all…

            Hell. He’s going to tell her, isn’t he?

            “My dad,” he says, before he can think better of it. “Do you know what he does?”

            “Professionally, do you mean?” At his nod, her lips purse. “He’s a potionneer, isn’t he?”

             “Right. But do you know what he did? Created?”

            The pursed lips thin. Her face skews, contorts. It’s almost amusing to watch, somehow knowing that it severely bothers her, this thing that she doesn’t know that she feels she ought. “Tell me,” she finally says, though she doesn’t sound pleased about it.

            It makes the telling a bit less humiliating.

           “Sleekeazy,” James says. Quickly. Like a plaster being ripped off. “My dad created Sleekeazy Hair Potion."

            For a moment, she is silent.

           Then, deadpan, “You’re taking the mickey.”

            “No.”

            “You must be.”

            “You can look it up. Fleamont Potter. The creator of Sleekeazy Hair Potion.”

            “But you… _you_ …” She slaps a hand over her mouth, begins to cackle. “Oh, holy hell— _you_ —”

            She can’t seem to get the rest of her words out. Instead, she reaches up and sifts her fingers through his decidedly _un_ sleek mop of hair, laughing and snorting, a telling communication all in itself.

           ( _She’s touching me_ , is all James can think for a long second, all other points aside.)

           “I know,” he says eventually, once her hand has dropped back down to the bar and he can think. He palms his hair too for a moment. “Says I’m his greatest inspiration and greatest torment, dad does. All in one package.”

            “Bloody _hell_.” She is grinning and sputtering. Then, almost as if on cue, like he’s planned it, she begins to sing, “ _Slllllleeeeekeazy, two drops for hair to pleasy. Dare to care and have fine haaaaaiiir…”_

           The familiar jingle is ridiculously off-key. She can’t sing for shite.

            James rolls his eyes. “I used to hate that bloody thing. Played every sodding five minutes on the wireless. Couldn’t escape it if you tried. But then…” He pauses. _Ponce_. Shrugs. “But then I went off to America. And I was alone, and a bit homesick, and I used to turn on the wireless before matches and tough training days, and if that stupid jingle played…dunno. Suppose I grew keen on it. Didn’t drive me spare as much.”

            “A reminder of home,” Lily says, and she’s not laughing anymore. “ _It_ was the comfort.”

            James nods. “Got a bit superstitious about it, actually. I still play the wireless before matches, hoping to hear it.”

            “So if it plays, it’s good luck?”

            “Something like that.”

            She toys with her drink, speaking casually from beneath lowered lashes. “So I reckon you’ll likely be looking for it tomorrow then, yeah?”

            James’s gaze snaps to hers.

_Does she…?_

            No, she can’t.

            “Good to have every day, I reckon,” he answers carefully.

             “Of course.” She smiles pleasantly at him. Then: “Let’s talk about Puddlemere.”

_She knows._

            James’s answer is automatic. “They’re a great club. I played with their minor team before Fitchburg. They have a great coaching staff, and a bunch of key players. One of the best in the League.”

            “ _Sisto_.” The spools stop. She gives him a look. Then: “Let’s talk about Puddlemere.”

            James eyes the stopped recorder. Her. “Off the record?”

            “Off the record.”

            It’s the conversation he’s been dreading all evening, the one he’d practised and formulated and diplomatically sculpted until there was nothing much left and he could plop it easy on his metaphorical plate, ready to serve. His plan had been to stick to that codswallop, even here, now, with her, but the moment’s arrived and somehow there’s more.

_It’s off the record. She knows some already. Just tell her. Tell her._

            “The scout arrives tomorrow,” he hears himself saying. “But I reckon you knew that already.”

            She nods slowly. “The _Prophet_ has a lot of connections.” She’s watching him carefully. “He’s called Cliff Tufton. The scout, I mean. Very gruff, a bit of a codger, but knows what he’s doing. Greta Moors plays at noon. You’re a few hours later.”

            James hadn’t known the scout’s name. Hadn’t known what time Greta—his main competition—was playing either. When he’d spoken to his agent this morning, Hoff hadn’t known many details. He’d merely said that this was it, the moment they’d been waiting for, and added—delighted—that James was _brilliant,_ that a well-placed profile in the _Prophet_ might be just the thing if they could manage to get the reporter on his side. Hoff had heard of Lily. Fancied her style. It was all set. But the match tomorrow…

            James’s stomach roiled just thinking about it.

            Words roiled, too.

            “I’ve done this once before, you know. With Puddlemere.” _Shut up shut up shut up. Not this part. Don’t tell her this part._ “A year and a half ago.”

            The surprise clearly spreads across her face. “What do you mean?”

 _Don’t don’t don’t she doesn’t need to know this_.

            “When I was playing on their minor team. Was much more hushed then. Not many knew. Gebhardt had just gotten injured; he was out for the season, maybe permanently. I’d done well on the minor team, but I’d been there more than two years. Every five months they’d dangle a proper club contract at me, then yank it away for one reason or another. Rosters. Money. Rubbish, all of it. But when Gebhardt went down…they were out a Chaser, with playoffs right around the corner. It looked like it might actually happen.”

            She must be putting together the pieces now. He can almost see the events straightening in her head, bit by bit. She knew her Quidditch, after all, and they both knew how this ended. Still, she asks, “What happened?”

            He can’t help the bitter scoff. “One shitty match. We were playing against Kenmare’s team, the deal was all but signed. I got cocky and stupid and took a few fouls I shouldn’t have done and scored fewer points than they wanted. Seemingly overnight, the whole thing fell to shambles. They traded Dorsey for Helen Dare, called me into the office with all kinds of big words and explanations, and there went my spot. I spent an obscene amount of money to buy out my minor league contract right then and there, and signed with Fitchburg the next day.”

            “Good,” Lily says immediately. Vehemently. “Fuck them.”

            James chokes out a laugh. “What I thought at the time, too. But Puddlemere has been my team since I knew what a team _was_. They _are_ the best in the League. And for all the shit the club put me through, I’ve played with some of their starters. They’re good people, and even better on the pitch. I’d be a fool to burn the bridge twice.”

            “Do you think they’ll do it again?” Lily asks, direct as always. “Grab up Greta like they did Helen and leave you dangling?”

            James nearly winces to hear it, bluntly put, all wrapped in a bow. Not that the exact thought hadn’t been playing through his head in a mind-numbing reel for weeks now, but he’s never sat down and talked with someone about it like this. Hoff’s job was to fluff James’s ego, so their talks never much left the realm of endless possibilities. And his mates, for all their indignation at the time, were rather just delighted at the prospect of having James back in the country. He never talked to his parents about his work, and Quidditch was a secretive, highly-competitive crowd. Even the colleagues he considered mates could cock up a deal merely by knowing. It didn’t leave many options.

            But here was Lily Evans, Jr. Quidditch Correspondent. The press. The enemy.

            Lily Evans understood.

            Frightening thing, that.

            “Not if I don’t fuck up,” James answers. He looks at her, shrugs. “Just can’t give them any reason to doubt, yeah?”

            “You won’t.” In the simplest of gestures that James still somehow feels straight down to his toes, Lily covers his hand with hers. “Give ’em hell, Potter.”

            James’s eyes flicker down to their hands, then up to her face. She does the same. Neither of them move.

            “Right.” He flips his hand, interlocking their fingers. “Thanks.”

            She nods. After another long moment, she pulls away.

            “ _Incipere.”_

\+ + +

**DAY FOUR (BARELY)**

            It’s just after midnight when they finally stumble out of The Cornish Pixie, laughing and giddy and slightly more inebriated than is likely wise. It’s raining a steady drizzle; they stagger into it. Lily squawks out a protest before James yanks her back beneath the bar’s ramshackle awning, a semblance of protection. From inside, he can still hear Hurley and Yves—two of the bar-huggers. Wildly friendly chaps, actually, once you got past the smell—arguing about the ’46 World Cup, a row James had accidentally started and which Lily had delightfully encouraged around an hour after the dodgy recording contraption had finally run out of spool, officially ending the interview, but sometime _before_ James had purchased the entire bar a round of Ogden’s, _you’re very welcome, good sirs!_

            The rain goes _plick, plick, plick_ against the awning, and James pulls Lily in closer, the length of her nearly brushing alongside his.

 _Plick, plick, plick,_ goes his pulse.

            “ _Rain_.” Lily groans. Then, “I should not have had that last drink.”

            “Should not have had the last two,” he corrects, and she groans again, her forehead dropping against his chest. His hands come up to grip her arms, steady, warm. She fits rather nicely just there. “What time’s my match again?”

            “Fucking hell.” Her head lifts. “Your _match_.”

            “Not until late afternoon, isn’t it?”

            “Right. But _I_ have to go to the others. Bugger.”

            “I warned you,” he tells her. “When you said, ‘Have another’ and I said, ‘No, thanks muchly’ and you said, ‘Fine, I’ll have yours too’, I _warned_ you.”

            “Shut up,” she says. “JAMES POTTER: CHASER, PERVERT, NAGGER.”

            “LILY EVANS,” he replies. “REPORTER, INSTIGATOR, DRUNKARD.”

            “Slander,” Lily scoffs. “I instigated nothing.”

            “You told Hurley that Yves hated the Fighting Irish!” James cries. “You’re lucky he didn’t burn the bloody place down!”

            Lily smiles fondly at the reminder. “I love Hurley. What a laugh.”

            “ _You’re_ a laugh,” James says, which turns the fond smile straight at him.

            He’s very fond of her fond smile.

            Very fond of a lot, really.

            “Thank you,” she says, and James can feel her fingers now playing at the ends of his untucked shirt, sweeping and curling and tantalizing.

            He bends his head, tucking it closer to hers. “For what?”

            “For agreeing to this. For telling me things. On and off the record.” Her eyes lift. “I reckon you might be a bit spectacular, James Potter.”

            “I reckon you might be more so, Lily Evans.” He leans. “Decidedly more so.”

            She isn’t moving away. His head tilts closer; he can feel her breath fan against his face, lingers there for a moment, in the quiet of it, with the _plick, plick, plicks_ , and thinks _I’m going to kiss her_ , forgetting for too long why that’s not a good idea, why it’s not the _best idea he’s ever heard_ , like the rest of him is claiming, demanding— _plick, plick, plick_ —

            She makes a quiet sound, and turns her head.

            “Wait,” she whispers. “No.”

            He stops.

            “No?” He blinks rapidly. Her fingers are still toying with his shirt. “You don’t want…”

            She sucks in a sharp breath. “Don’t _want_?” It’s a laugh now. “CHASER, PERVERT, _IDIOT_. Of course I _want_. I want to thrust you against the nearest wall and snog you until you can’t breathe. I want to rip off this stupid shirt and feel your skin. I want—” Another quick breath. She turns her gaze back to his, glaring. “ _Idiot_ ,” she says again. “Of course I _want_.”

            “Then what?”

            “I can’t do this,” she says, and for a moment the _want_ turns to earnestness. “Not now. Not like this. Mixing the business and the pleasure…I want to write this article. I _need_ to write this article. And I can’t do that properly if we do any of the things I’m sure we’d fancy doing right now. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”

            _Not a good idea_ , his brain says. _Listen to her._

 _Feel her_ , the rest of him insists. _Listen to her and_ feel _her._

            It’s a war. No one is winning.

            “So we…don’t.” The last word comes out on a sigh, on a choke. “We don’t…ever?”

            “ _Ever?”_ She recoils. “Merlin’s beard, bite your tongue. Just…give me a few days, all right? Let me finish the article. Give ourselves some space. We’ll reassess then. We’re a bit combustible now, I think.”

            _Combustible_ is tepid, tame. James cannot possibly resist the urge to prove it, pushing his body against hers—his arms circle around her back, dipping lower. His cock is prodding hard and insistent against his trousers, and fuck it all if he doesn’t want her to know it. His body nudges her, and she hums with it.

            “Bit combustible, yeah,” he agrees.

            She lets off a soft moan from the back of her throat. He feels the sound everywhere.

            “I’m going to go,” she says, but doesn’t move. “Thank you. Good luck. You’ll do well tomorrow.”

            “You’re coming, yeah?” And before she can answer with the requisite _It’s my job_ , adds, “Non-professionally. If it wasn’t required. Would you come?”

            She seems to be amused by the question, sniffing a quiet laugh as her hands finally detangle from his shirt only long enough to reach up and cup his face. Their bodies are still touching everywhere, and yet when she leans in and drops the softest, chastest of kisses to his cheek, he feels it like a thunderbolt, like the only thing in the world.

            _Bugger_ , he thinks, because he really is a goner, isn’t he?

            “I’ll be there,” she says, and somehow manages to detach herself. She steps back into the rain.

            James follows her. “How many days?”

            “As few as I can manage, I promise.”

            “That’s not—”

            But she lifts her wand, and a second later—she’s gone.


	4. Day Four

**\+ + +**

**DAY FOUR**

            Cliff Tufton is a big-boned Welshman with a graying handlebar mustache, a sharp receding hairline, and a bulbous nose that sits a bit too large on his face. He is dressed casually in black trousers and a plain white shirt, and every so often he pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket and dabs at his perspiring brow. He does not seem to be much of a smiler, nor much of a talker, but when he grips James’s hand in his, he pumps it firmly and wishes him luck in the upcoming match.

            “Good fingers,” he observes, holding the clasp a second too long. “Always keen on a lad with good fingers.”

            From beside him, James can practically feel the strength of Hoff’s beaming.

            “Yes, he does,” the agent agrees readily _(too readily)._ “And speed like you’ve never seen. Did you get those times I sent over from training yesterday? Really quite spectacular. It’s—”

            “They do the job,” James interrupts, shooting Cliff a commiserating look.

            The man does not move a muscle. Not even a single twitch of the too-large nose or the perspiring brow.

            (Likely, Greta Moors has good fingers, too.)

            “Play worthy,” Cliff says before he departs, and James immediately recognizes the phrase—an old Puddlemere adage the coaches had sprouted before every match, even in the minor league. Hearing it again now is more disarming than James would have expected. He is compelled in equal parts to puff out his chest with pride, and keel over to vomit.

            (He does neither, thankfully. Just says goodbye and continues on his way.)

            ( _Very gruff, a bit of a codger_ , James thinks, watching Cliff go. Then reprimands himself to quit mooning over witches and start focusing on his match.)

            (This is successful for a minute or two. James is frankly impressed.)

            He passes the entrance to the press box on his way to the locker room, Hoff jabbering a litany of warnings and encouragements in his ear all the while. James’s match is set to begin in less than an hour. The previous exhibition had just ended—Greta had scored the opening goal, and James had asked not to be told anything after that. But from the sounds that had been streaming in from the pitch all afternoon, it had apparently been an exciting game.

            A Junior Quidditch Correspondent would likely be hard-pressed to leave. Was likely still in the press room doing post-match follow-ups. Might even arrive late to the next match, finishing.

_(I’ll be there.)_

            Hoff can’t get past the entrance to the tunnels leading down to the locker rooms, not with his paltry credentials, though he does his best to wave them about with authority. The security stops him as he’s still hollering words of wisdom and inspirational catchphrases at James’s back (“Tuck your legs on your turns! Go for the goal! It’s your day, mate!”), and the whole scene is funny enough for James to finally crack a smile.

            Good ol’ Hoff, always there for a laugh.

            ( _I love Hurley. What a laugh.)_

            (Focus, focus, _focus._ )

            Quidditch players are by rote a superstitious lot. When James enters the locker room, he’s not surprised to find Harvey Klinderson already there. The hulking Beater spent fifteen years playing for Chudley and was now looking for a comeback, but eagerness isn’t what motivates his promptness. Klinderson’s ritual is to always be the first to arrive. Likely he’s been here for hours. And in the far corner, Lorri Jackson is stretching with her eyes closed, counting out her usual pre-match movements in a muted whisper.

            “Anyone seen my other glove?” Padrig Dooster calls, throwing things about his cubby before diving to the ground, disappearing beneath a bench. “Where the bloody fuck is it?”

            “Quiet,” Lorri orders.

            “Check Lufty’s space,” Klinderson says. “Wanker’s like a bloody Niffler. Gathers things like it’s his job.”

            “Bloody Lufty,” Dooster grumbles, heading in that direction.

            James’s own space is orderly, immaculate. He is not by norm a particularly neat person, but a sportsman is only as good as his equipment, and James honors that. His broom is locked in the nearby cupboard along with the rest of his teammates’. His robes hang on the hook, clean and pressed, a gleaming scarlet. His own gloves poke out of the top of his bag, lying over a sturdy pile of pads. Goggles, tape, water, ointment…all in their proper place.

            Which is why James realises almost immediately that something else is  _not_.

            He looks once, twice. Up and down. Left and right.

            Nothing.

            “Oy, Doos?”  _Don’t panic_. “Lufty doesn’t happen to have my portable wireless over there too, does he?”

            “Wussit?” Dooster’s voice is muffled, likely stifled beneath a heap of Lufty’s rubbish. “Dfft?”

            “My wireless!” James calls again. “Is it over there?”

            “No wireless yet,” Lorri warns, stretching her arms down to her toes. “Give me ten more minutes.”

            “You may have more.”  _Shit shit shit._  “If I can’t find—”

            “Good morning, good morning!” someone sings from the locker room entrance. Jools Betteridge, their Keeper. “A beautiful day to play!”

            “It’s late afternoon,” Klinderson says.

            Jools frowns. “It’s my thing, all right? Can’t you leave me my thing?”

            “You seen my wireless, Betts?” James asks. “Or Dooster’s glove?”

            Betts’s eyebrows rise. “Lorri will murder you if you turn on the wireless now.”

            “I’m going to murder _all_ of you if you don’t quit yapping,” Lorri corrects.

            “Can’t turn it on if I can’t find it, can I?” James snaps.

            Betts moves toward her locker, shooting him a look for his churlishness. “Have you checked with Lufty? Bloke’s a sodding klepto, I swear.”

            “Who’s a sodding klepto?” chimes another voice, and a moment later, Lufty himself arrives. He’s a goofy-looking fellow, all giant limbs and stretched-out features. He's carrying no less than three bags of indiscriminate origins, all overflowing with things James does not have time to contemplate uses for, nor account legitimate ownership of (though one _does_ always wonder).

            “You,” Klinderson answers, eyeing the bags too. “You got Potter’s wireless somewhere in there, Luft? Or Dooster’s glove?”

            “No luck on the wireless,” Luft reports cheerily. “Dooster’s glove is with Marcie. He left it at training yesterday.”

            “Bugger,” Doos mutters, popping up from beneath another bench.

            “Where  _is_ Marcie?” Betts asks.

            Lufty wiggles his eyebrows. “Chatting up a scout from Holyhead, from what I hear.”

            “Bullshit,” Klinderson scoffs. “She’s playing games to up her renewal contract offer. She wouldn’t leave Falmouth.”

            “Not what I heard.”

            “She’d destroy their entire offense! Besides, I heard—”

            The conversation continues; talk of which scouts were arriving today and the various comings and goings of the players at the exhibition. It’s the Professional Quidditch equivalent of mealtime school gossip, and normally James would be as immersed in the tidbits of information as his teammates (—with the exception of Lorri, a longtime Appleby veteran, who had lost patience with the lot of them and huffed her way out of the locker room to finish her warm-ups in peace).

            But James’s opportunity for his first arrival, his pre-game stretch, his “good morning, good morning”, had now been stolen from him. He feels the loss of the wireless like a twist in his gut, a forbidding omen. The irrational part of him takes over, quickly and nearly uncontrollably. Perhaps talking about it last night with Lily had jinxed it. Perhaps this whole _day_ was jinxed. Greta Moors had scored the first goal. Marcie York was leaving Falmouth. Dooster’s glove was missing, Lufty was one theft away from conviction, and Cliff Tufton couldn’t even bother to give James a smile. All this, and James did not have so much as a single  _chance_ to hear a comforting “ _Slllllleeeeekeazy…!”_  to make it all better.

            Of alldays. Of all _bloody_ days.

            He goes through the rest of his pre-game motions in a bitter daze—dons his equipment, slips on his robes, listens with half-an-ear as Lorri returns, much happier now, and Marcie finally arrives, smiling all secretively like the cat that got the cream when questioned about Holyhead. One of Lufty’s bags unearths a bottle of Ogden’s and he takes a shot for luck before getting dressed. James is strongly tempted to ask for one, too.

 _You’ve got good fingers_ , James reminds himself, even if right at that moment, the appendages in question are feeling a bit numb.

 _Quit being a pansy. This is ridiculous._ Then:  _I reckon you might be a bit spectacular, James Potter_.

            Lily would be laughing her arse off at him right now, wouldn’t she?

            _Spectacular, mate. You’re spectacular._

            It’s a prayer, a mantra, and James latches on and takes hold. Spectacular people don’t fall to shambles because of a bit of superstition. Spectacular people don’t surrender in defeat before the battle has even begun. Spectacular people don’t need luck. They’re spectacular. They make their _own_ luck.

 _Sllllleeeekeazy!_  he hums in his head, garbled and desperate.  _Two drops for hair to pleasy…! Dare to care and have fine haaaaiiiiirrrr…_

            “Oh, hey, you found it?”

            James startles. Flushing red (bloody hell—he hadn’t been humming _aloud_ , had he?), he turns to find Betts standing beside him.

            He clears his throat. “What’s that?”

            “Your wireless,” Betts says. “Where did you find it?”

            “Find it? I…didn’t.” But his voice breaks on the last. He stops, blinks. For a moment, he wonders how he’s speaking and singing in his head all at the same time.

            _Sllllleeeeeeeekeazy!_

            But he’s  _not_ singing in his head. Not singing out loud, either (thankfully). The jingle…it’s there, but it’s not coming from him at all.

_“…two drops for hair to pleasy! Dare to care and have fine haaaaiiiiirrrr. Make your hair potion-perfect with Sleekeazy’s one-of-a-kind formula—”_

            What in the _hell_ …?

            “What is that?” James spins around. “Where’s that coming from?”

            The jingle continues.

            Betts’s brow furrows. “It’s not yours?”

            “I never found mine.”

            “Not mine!” Lufty calls, but he’s snapping along to the advert now. “ _Sllllleeeeeeeekeazy, the best care for your haiiiiir!_ Damn, that’s catchy. _”_

            The commercial ends and James is still searching. “Whose wireless is it?”

            There are a few seconds of silence. Then:

_“Sllllleeeeeeeekeazy, two drops for hair to pleasy!—”_

            The whole locker room laughs and groans.

            “Someone’s  _broken_ wireless, clearly,” Lorri grumbles.

            “I like it,” Lufty proclaims. He’s still snapping. “Hey, Potter—didn’t your dad create this stuff?”

            James nods mutely. As the jingle plays a second time, there is something in his chest, expanding, exploding.

            “Hey, guys?” Betts is glancing upward. “I reckon…is that coming from the vent?”

            “The  _vent_?” Dooster is looking up now, as well. They all are. “Who the fuck would stick a broken wireless in a locker room vent?”

            The advert begins to play for the third time.

            “You know, Potter,” Klinderson says, “if you needed money, you could just ask. Don’t have to push your products on us like this.”

            “Caught me,” James somehow manages, hoping he doesn’t sound as breathless as he feels. “Anyone got a few Galleons?”

            Lufty chucks a Knut at him, and Marcie punches his arm good-naturedly. Everyone begins to laugh and jibe as the advert plays over and over, like a quiet locker room soundtrack. By the seventh or eighth time, they are all groaning. They’re quite lucky it’s time to leave. Lorri throws something at the vent as they depart, but the advert continues to play, undeterred.

_“Sllllleeeeeeeekeazy, two drops for hair to pleasy! Dare to care and have fine haaaaiiiiirrrr…!”_

_Spectacular_ , James thinks, grinning. Then he leaves the locker room.

 

**\+ + +**

**DAY FOUR (Later)**

            The large, chipping wooden door wobbles in front of James.

            Or—hm. Perhaps _James_ wobbles in front of the large, chipping wooden door. One or the other. Something is wobbling. Wobbling, wobbling,  _wobbling_. What a funny word, wobbling is. As he reaches out (wobbling) and knocks on the door (wobbling), he is just not quite certain which it is. Him or the door, that is. With the wobbling.

            _Wobbbbbling_. He laughs.

            _Wobbling_.

            Knock knock.

            _Wobbbbbbbbling_.

            KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

            The door opens.

            Light. Too much light. His good hand flies up to block it as he squints, disoriented. It is otherwise dark inside the corridor. It had been dark coming up the four flights of stairs, too. The whole building had shotty lighting—how did anyone get around? It’s not  _quite_ that dark outside just yet, and it certainly hadn’t been dark earlier in the hospital. Regardless, it’s clearly quite bright in Lily Evans’s flat. James is momentarily blinded.

            He finally drops his hand to find her standing on the opposite side of the door. _Her_. Lily. She’s wearing flannel pajama bottoms and an oversized  _Prophet_ t-shirt. Her hair is wet and hangs over her shoulders. In her hand, she carries one of those Muggle fellytones, the curved end pressed up against her ear.

            She looks positively mystified to see him.

            James grins. “Hullo.”

            “Mum?”

            “No, not Mum. James.”

            The shock quickly morphs to exasperation. “Mum, I’ll have to ring you back. My stalker’s just arrived.” She pauses briefly. “Well, of  _course_  I’m going to let him in. What else does one  _do_ with stalkers?” An eye roll. “Yes, Mum, I’m kidding. I’ll speak with you soon. Bye.”

            As she hangs the curved end back in the other bit, James wobbles ( _ha_ ) against the doorframe. “Your mum sounds nice,” he says.

            “She’ll call again in fifteen minutes to make sure you haven’t killed me.” Lily places the fellytone on a side table beside the door, then crosses her arms over her chest. “What are you doing here?”

            “Hullo.”

            “How did you know where I live?”

            “People who know people who know _people_.” He waves a nonchalant hand. Or tries his best. Really, it’s a good thing he’s still leaning against the doorjamb—he wobbles _(ha)_ with the wave. The stern curve of her mouth only makes him grin more. “Hullo.”

            “Yes, you’ve said that.” Her eyes narrow. “Are you drunk?”

            “No.” Well, not  _quite_. He digs in his pocket and produces the small vial the healer had given him. “This.”

            Lily takes it from him, squinting to read the label. “Shivren Potion?” Her eyes dart upward, gawking. “This is a sedative. An extremely  _strong_ painkiller.”

            “I dislocated my shoulder.”

            “What? When?"

            “Hm?”

            “ _When_ did you dislocate your shoulder?”

            “Oh. Earlier.”

            “Earlier _when_? During the match?”

            James nods. She hasn’t invited him in—hasn’t really welcomed him at all, come to think of it. Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all—but he reaches out and plucks at a few strands of her wet hair, anyway. The moisture feels cool and lovely against his fingertips.  _She would feel cool and lovely against his fingertips_.

            She grabs his hand. “James. Focus. You dislocated your shoulder during the match? When did—” She sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh, hell. When you flew into the goal post?” 

            James nods again. Or thinks he nods. He really means to. But mostly he’s just happy. She’d watched his match, just like she said.

            Merlin, she’s so  _pretty_.

            “ _James_.” She pulls at him. She’s frowning even more now. “You dislocated your shoulder when you flew into the goal post?”

            “ _Y-_ es.”

            “But…you played forty-five more minutes after that!”

            James nods one last time, sadly. “Not well done that was, the healer said. Not well done at  _all_.” Too much nodding. It’s really done a number on him. He feels a bit dizzy. The floor is spinning. Or he’s spinning? “D’you reckon I can sit?” he asks.

            “For the love of—get inside!” She goes to yank him in, then recoils. “Which one?”

            “Hm?”

            “Which  _shoulder_?”

            “Oh. Left.” Immediately, she’s at his side, propping herself under his right arm and being unduly careful not to jostle his left. He lets his head drop neatly atop hers as they stumble through the doorway. “Hullo,” he says again.

            “Idiot,” she replies, and leads him toward a small, plush sofa that sits in front of an ashy fireplace. It only takes a few steps to get there. The whole flat is rather tiny, and has a hint of shabbiness to it. But she’s done it up nicely with pictures and knick-knacks and lovely, homey things. The mantle is filled with mismatched picture frames—James recognises Lily in a few of the photos, but doesn’t get a good look elsewise—and the sofa has two huge pillows with brightly-coloured stripes. On one wall, there are a slew of framed newspapers—perhaps Lily’s articles, or maybe just favorites. James ought to ask—but he gets distracted by the coffee table before the sofa, which is filled with piles and piles of parchment.

            “Is that my article?” he asks.

            “Yes.” She guides him onto the sofa, then quickly begins gathering up the parchment.

            “Wait, I want to read it!”

            “I don’t reckon you could read right now if your life depended on it, mate.”

            “ _Psh_ -aw. Lemme try.”

            “It’s not finished.”

            “Don’t care. I—”

            “ _Don’t_ move,” she warns, and her sharp tone alone is enough to have James collapsing back in his seat. He is quickly engulfed by the sofa’s soft cushions, and the piles of parchment are secreted off elsewhere.

            “Um.” He leans his head back. Everything spins again. _Bugger_. Articles, articles, articles…“Er, by the by…this’s all…y’know…off the record, yeah?”

            There is a loud scoffing sound behind him.

            “You’re supposed to say that  _before_ you say or do something stupid,” she informs him. She’s returned with a large glass of water. She holds it out to him. “After doesn’t count.”

            “Oh.” He takes the glass, then a long, hefty gulp. “So…'JAMES POTTER: CHASER, STALKER, CRIPPLE'?”

            “'JAMES POTTER',” she says, “'CHASER, STALKER, LARGEST TWIT TO EVER LIVE'.”

            James sighs heavily. “That’s what the healer said, too. Was terribly rude about it. No bedside manner at all. Ought to report her. How was I to know, anyway? Thought I was helping, snapping the stupid thing back in place and sticking on a Binding Charm on the pitch. Had a match to finish. Just the opposite, as it turns out. ‘Look what you've done!’ she yelled. ‘Now I can't heal it until tomorrow!’ Yell, yell, _yell_. ‘What’s there to heal, anyway?’ I asked her. ‘It’s back in there now, isn’t it?’ Wasn’t keen on _those_ questions, let me tell you. I’d like to see her license. Honestly. So much _yelling_ …”

            He relaxes into the cushions and closes his eyes. His head is still doing slight twirls, but the wobbling _(ha)_ is better now that he’s no longer on his feet. He feels the sofa sink in as Lily sits down beside him, then feels her fingers brush along his hairline before settling on his forehead. Likely she’s checking his temperature, but James relishes it like a caress.

            “Why in the  _hell_ would you have kept playing if you dislocated your shoulder?” she mutters. “I didn’t even realise you were hurt.”

            “That’s the point,” James says. He turns his head and blinks open his eyes. Her fingers are a cool, oasis balm. “No one did. They couldn’t. Cliff Tufton.”

            It’s explanation enough. She understands, but is still not satisfied. “Idiot.”

            “We won.”

            “I know.”

            “I played spectacularly.”

            “You almost killed yourself.”

            “Spectacularly.”

            “Hmph.”

            “ _Spectacularly_.”

            “Fine,” she concedes, exasperated but clearly amused. “ _Spectacularly_.”

            Her fingers are still near his forehead, now slowly stroking his hair. Ah. An _actual_ caress. James nestles into the motion like a needy cat, utterly shameless. In the quiet, he finally has a moment to think. Or not think. It’s been ages since he could just blissfully _not_ think, which ultimately allows for the remembrance of other blissfully significant things.

            “Someone stole my wireless from my locker,” he tells her. “Before the match today. Someone filched my wireless, then stuck a rigged one in the locker room vent. It played the Sleekeazy advert, over and over.”

            “Did it?” Her tone is casual. Unsurprised. “Fortunate for you, then.”

            “It doesn’t count if it’s on purpose.”

            “Doesn’t it?” Her smile is rueful. “I thought you played  _spectacularly_?”

            “Was it you?”

            “Was what me?”

            “Lily.”

            “Of course it wasn’t me,” she answers, and for a moment, James’s heart sinks with disappointment. Then, nonchalantly: “Because if I  _had_ done, that would mean I would’ve had to sneak into a restricted area of the exhibition, filch something from one of their star players, and vaguely tamper with the complex’s ventilation system. I’d get my credentials revoked for certain. Possibly even sacked. So of  _course_  it wasn’t me. Couldn’t be.”

            “Couldn’t be,” James agrees, but his head is feeling light and floaty again for reasons that have nothing to do with the Shivren Potion, and he wants to kiss her. He  _really_ wants to kiss her. But he can’t kiss her. It’s not allowed. Not yesterday, not today. Business and pleasure, etcetera, etcetera. But he is renegade—a _spectacular_ renegade—so he grabs her hand and kisses the back of it. _Take that._ Even afterward he doesn’t let go, just gathers her fingers against his chest and closes his eyes once more.

            He’d like to fall asleep like this. He really would.

            “What am I going to do with you?” she mutters, likely rhetorically, though James can offer a few suggestions if she’s open to it. “You shouldn’t be here. For a hundred different reasons. You’re injured. You should be resting.”

            “I am resting.”

            “On your own sofa. Doesn’t the exhibition set you up in some posh hotel?”

            “Stark and swotty. Everything’s white. There are no pillows.”

            “High standards, Quidditch stars.”

            “Kicking me out?”

            “Ought to.”

            “Will you?"

            She hums something noncommittal. “Have you eaten?” she asks instead. “You shouldn’t have that stuff in your system without any food.”

            James tries to think back to earlier in the day, but it’s all a bit hazy and it’s hard to clasp hold of moments that aren’t _this_ moment, sitting on the sofa of Lily Evans, Junior Quidditch Correspondent, with her fingers sweeping softly through his hair and the others caught against his chest and the world looking all bright and shiny. There’s a vague recollection of the Yelling Healer thrusting some sustenance at him, but he’s not _entirely_ certain that actually happened. Which would mean his last meal had been…?

            “Reckon I ate breakfast?” More question than answer. “Right. Breakfast?”

            “Breakfast.”

            “Yes. Definitely.”

            “Fucking hell.”

            “ _Might’ve_ gotten something from the Yelling Healer,” he’s quick to defend. “Can’t _really_ recall. Didn’t vomit anything up when I Apparated over here, in any case.”

            “When you—” Her fingers stop. She inhales loudly. “You _Apparated_ like this?”

            “’Course.” Really, the things she asked. “How else was I meant to get here?”

            The cushions shift as she rises to her feet.

            “Stop talking,” is what she tells him, quickly, sharply. “Please stop talking before I feel the need to murder you myself.” He hears her footsteps stomping away. “ _Apparated_ over here. ‘How else was I meant to get here?’ Sodding mental _neanderthal_ …”

            There is the sound of cupboards opening and closing with angry enthusiasm.

            A shrill ringing fills the air.

            “Your fellytone,” James calls.

            “ _Telephone_ ,” she corrects. A second later, the ringing stops and Lily says, “Yes, Mum, I’m alive. Honestly.”

            James drifts into a light doze listening to Lily’s low voice reassuring her mother that, no indeed, James has neither murdered nor mutilated her, thanks for asking. The soft timbre of her voice, the quiet sounds of her bustling around the kitchen…he tries to recall the last time he’d been with a witch like this, just two of them, doing silly mundane things. He can’t. Not with _anyone_ really, save maybe Sirius. But Sirius is never quiet or mundane. Living with him has always been a study in surviving normalised chaos.

            Sirius would like Lily. Not at first, of course—Sirius never liked anyone at first, and there was that whole “Fuck off” hurdle to overcome. She would not go quietly into the night with that one, James was certain of it—but eventually they’d get on. Remus and Peter would like her from the start. They were easily pleased, and Lily pleased easily. He should Floo them. They’d be here in a few days, of course, but…

            Hm. Thinking. Too much thinking. Far too much thinking.

            Eventually Lily comes back to foist some eggs and toast on him. James devours the simple fare readily, not realising until that moment just how ravenous he is. The simple act of eating causes a sharp pain in his shoulder, which means the potion is likely starting to wear off, and with it comes some lingering sense of sanity. He’s in pain, and utterly knackered, and likely smells like hospital. He tells her this, and she sniffs sympathetically.

            “You can shower if you’d like,” she offers.

            James takes another hefty bite of toast. “You’re just trying to get me naked.”

            She snorts. “Something tells me I wouldn’t have to try too hard.”

            James cannot argue with that. He continues to eat instead, because states of nakededness are not something he ought to be considering presently.

            “Can I ask you something?” she says next.

            A distraction. Excellent. James swallows. “No, I will not strip for you. Really, Evans. I’m injured. Have a care. Maybe tomorrow.”

            She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t play along. Her expression has gone oddly serious actually, and she regards him speculatively.

            “Go on,” he urges.

            Her fingers begin to twirl at the ends of her hair. “Why are you here?” she asks softly, different from the first time. “You go through all this—popping joints back in, Binding Charms, furtive hospital visits—all I assume in an attempt to keep an injury secret so it doesn’t get back to Puddlemere. But then you show up here. At _my_ flat. The reporter already writing a story on you.” She bites at her lower lip. “Do you…do you really trust me that much? Or was it the Shriven Potion, pulling a fast one?”

            James considers the question carefully. And her. “Would you rather I say it’s the second?” he asks.

            Her lips press together. “Honestly? Both are a bit frightening.”

            She speaks the truth. So James feels he ought to, as well.

            “Honestly, then? I reckon it’s the first.”

            She takes that in with a solemn nod, as if expecting it, prepared for it. She doesn’t look pleased or displeased, merely contemplative. But then, sighing heavily, she says, “Shit."

            “Shit,” James agrees.

            They both laugh.

            Reality is returning, slowly but steadily. He knows he ought to get back to the hotel and go to sleep. He ought to rise from this sofa, thank her kindly for the food and the patience and the stalking allowances, and depart like any decent (sane) wizard would do. He’s known her four days ( _Merlin’s beard—four days?_ ), and one of the only things she’s asked of him is for some space. Not even permanently. Just a few days. And what’s he do? Beg her address off some spotty _Prophet_ intern and show up at her door the very next day, dithering and damaged and decidedly uninvited.

            And _demented_ , clearly. Because she’s right. He’d gone through extraneous pains to keep this bloody dislocation a secret so that Puddlemere couldn’t use it as the paltry grain of salt to tip their fickle scales toward Greta Moors, and he seems to have been successful thus far. But then he shows up here, to her—a _reporter’s_ flat—and expects…what? That she’ll keep mum? More, that she’ll coddle and comfort and cater to his madness?

            Except she has done. Not without a bit of shock and scolding, of course, but she’d let him in and looked after his damages and fed him sustenance and doesn’t even seem to be particularly unhappy about it. She’d rigged up a wireless to wish him luck, but James’s semi-bleary mind has since been thinking that the luckiest damn thing that’s ever happened to him was getting his stupid lanyard caught on her trousers.

            So he doesn’t leave.

            He lets her lead him into her bedroom—a space barely big enough to fit the nominal furniture, though there are mountains of homey pillows here, too. She pops into the ensuite loo and returns with a small vial of something purple, which she holds out to him.

            “Tedemod Brew,” she explains. “Quicker and less potent than Shivren. You can’t take any more of that so soon. But this should keep away the pain and help you sleep.”

            “Don’t need much help,” James says, punctuating the admission with a wide yawn. But his shoulder is throbbing, so he takes the potion and downs it swiftly.

            He feels the effect almost immediately. He blinks, and wobbles ( _ha_ ).

            Lily smiles and reaches out a hand to steady him. “O true apothecary. Thy drugs are quick.”

            “Wuz?”

            She snorts and nudges him toward the bed. “We’ll work on your Shakespeare in the morning.”

            “Shake what?” He kicks out of his trainers, stumbling otherwise fully clothed atop the coverlet. He lies on his back, staring up at her. “You sleeping?”

            “It’s barely gone eight, mate.” She shoves his legs aside to maneuver the blanket out from beneath him, then plucks off his specs and drops them on a nightstand. “I think you and my eighty-five-year-old neighbor are the only two ready to be tucked in for the night.”

            Tucked in sounds nice. “Hm.”

            Tucked in _with_ her sounds better.

            She flicks off the light, leaving the room quiet and dark. James can already feel himself succumbing to the day, to the potion, to the daysweeks _months_ of tension and indecision and the lack of a single moment of this: heavenly nothing, with the scent of warm vanilla and clean sheets around him. Nothing to do and nowhere to be and with one of the only people he can think of to share it with.

            He feels the bed shift. Lily tucks herself neatly against his right side.

            As their bodies intertwine, he glances down at her in the dark. “Thought you weren’t sleeping?”

            “I’m not.” She nuzzles his neck. “You’ll be asleep in three minutes. I’ll leave then.”

            “I think I want to marry you.”

            “All right. Ask me in the morning.”

            He drops his cheek against her hair. “Okay.”

            Less than three minutes. It’s the last thing he recalls saying before he’s asleep.


	5. Day Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onward, friends. This chapter originally had a quite different ending, much longer and more of a scene, but it wasn’t quite working and I stressed over it endlessly so I switched it out for this new bit and we will see how that goes.

**\+ + +**

**DAY FIVE**

James manages to survive his Day Five training session through a rather astounding combination of creative ingenuity, blissful self-delusion, and some timely assistance from unlikely places.

The creative ingenuity comes first—though perhaps it can be called creative only in the loosest of senses. James’s left shoulder is so stiff he can hardly reach out to grab the Quaffle, much less run drills with one. He doesn’t really have a choice  _but_  to find a way to skive off real training…without anyone actually  _realising_  he’s skiving. Scouts watch training sessions. Players—competitors—watch, too. He can already spot a few up in the stands, their faces too far away to discern identities. It’s a dangerous game, this being-vaguely-injured-without-letting-anyone- _know_ -you’re-vaguely-injured dance. It’s creativity out of necessity.

So after minimal warm-ups, as Marcie and Dooster line up to begin a series of tosses, James pulls a face and waves them off (with his right hand).

“Get started without me,” he says. “I’m off to grab Yates for a few speed trials. I was too slow yesterday.”

“Too slow?” Marcie looks nearly insulted. “You were faster than either of us.”

James would shrug if he could. “Never fast enough.”

Dooster  _does_  shrug. This is an exhibition training session. They have two more matches, and Dooster’s only in this for publicity anyway. What does he care? “Off you go, then, mate,” he says, saluting.

James salutes back (with his right hand) and goes to find Finnerty Yates, one of the training coaches. For the next hour, he works on flying that didn’t need to be worked on in the first place, but which requires absolutely no extraneous usage of his left shoulder. He’s joined a half-hour in by Lorri Jackson, whose sharp gaze watches him speculatively as they run through the paces. If the seeker suspects the true reason behind James’s new preoccupation with speed, however, she says nothing.

Creative ingenuity cuts training by half, but James can only wriggle his way out of actual play for so long. As the first hour comes to a close, one of the training coaches calls for team drills. There is no way James can pull out without calling considerable attention to himself. Lorri gives him a sympathetic look, but remains silent. He’s grateful, and resigned.

Lufty slaps a friendly arm around James’s back, and James nearly yelps like a child.

“See you up there.” Luft grins—the oblivious bugger—and kicks off to the sky.

James follows miserably.

Enter: blissful self-delusion.

While his teammates fly amuck around the pitch, James tries half-heartedly to rally up a decent amount of participation. To keep from hissing or wincing or (Merlin help him) sobbing like Moaning Myrtle on one of her worst days every time he’s forced to touch the Quaffle, James deludes himself into believing he can swap out thoughts of pain for thoughts of something far more compelling.

Something like Lily Evans, Jr. Quidditch Correspondent.

 _Lily_.

The hisses turn to sighs. The winces, to grins. He rather reckons he could still muster up a proper Myrtle sob, but the reaction would stem from something far more confounding and consuming than pain.

Joy. Bewilderment. Rampant sexual frustration.

He’s not certain he can aptly describe what it felt like to wake up that morning with Lily Evans curled around him like an extra extension, like part of one, all lengths, limbs, hair, and breaths mingled together in a single small bed. He’d been in pain then too—the purple potion she’d given him the night before had clearly worn off in the dwindling hours—but one sensation combats the other. It’s early. It’s just the two of them. Her leg is hitched up over his; her arms wrap around his torso. His good hand had drifted up beneath her shirt, resting on the cool skin of her hip. He can’t suck in a single breath without sucking in some of her, and it is beyond baffling that he doesn’t seem to mind this in the least.

He stays terribly still, like a statue or a painting. If he moves, he might ruin it. The moment will be gone. And then he won’t have any luck trying to figure out this blasted conundrum of a woman, and why in a matter of five short days, he’s become a bit obsessed with her.

He still hasn’t made much progress on it by the time she stirs.

“Wu’tim’st?” she murmurs, more to his shirtfront than directly to him. (Nuzzles rather unabashedly into him, actually, seeming not even vaguely startled by his unexpected presence in her bed.)

(Bloke can get used to that, James thinks.)

“Dunno,” he manages. There’s a clock on the nightstand, but his specs are still off and he can’t even imagine attempting to reach for them. The clock hands are decidedly bleary. “Early?” he guesses.

She lets out a long moan. It takes a bit, but she eventually lifts her head and squints at the clock herself. Her hair is knotty and rumpled, and there is a crease across her cheek from where it had been pressed against him. In this light, her eyes are quite a dark green.

“Shit.” Her head drops back down. “We have to get up.”

“Wu’tim’st?”

“Shuddup. Seven.”

“Then why the sodding hell are we getting up?”

“Because of  _you_ _._ Have to be back to the Healer at half-past, don’t you?” As if suddenly recalling, her head pops back up and she leans away. “How’s your shoulder?”

“A fiery joint of blinding pain,” James reports, hoping to dull the agony with jokes. If he doesn’t shift, it’s bearable. Sort of. “Hope you don’t mind, but I reckon I may need to live in your bed. Not even for perverted reasons. Movement is simply not an option.”

“Thanks for the clarification.” She shifts upward. The bed creaks beneath them. “But if you’re open to other ideas, I reckon I might have more Tedemod—”

She rises—likely to fetch him more potion, brilliantly helpful bird—but just as she lifts, James grabs hold of her hip (with his right hand). “Wait.”

She pauses, gazing down at him. There is a single window in the tiny room, but it limns her features with dim morning sunlight. He’s still half-blind. He’s in furious pain. But his first thought is still:  _she’s lovely._

Also:  _I would very much like to shag this woman._  Though at this point, he’s really just as eager for a single paltry snog, and doesn’t that say it all?

“Good morning,” he says.

She smiles. “Good morning.”

“Just thought I should…er, you know. Apologise. Again.” He clears his throat. “For stalking your address. And showing up uninvited. Injured and inebriated. Forcing you to nurse me and feed me. And then stealing into your bed. Which I will now live in. Permanently.” He squints. “Have I left anything out?”

“You also snore,” she provides helpfully. “Not like a foghorn, thankfully. Little snores. Distracting, but reassuring too. I knew I hadn’t overdosed and killed you.”

“Ah.” James shifts. The pain radiates up his arm and down his spine, and he hisses out a curse. “ _Ah._ Well, then.”  _Grunt_. “Sorry about the snoring, too.”  _Shit._ “Thank you for not killing me.”

She pats his cheek, looking worried. “Any time.”

She slips off into the loo, tossing him his glasses on the way. James slides them on (with his right hand), and the world comes back into focus. Before she drugs him again, she badgers out the necessary appointment details (except he’s apparently already told her most of them—when had he done that?). James insists she doesn’t have to come along, and gets only the dirtiest of looks in return. He downs the potion.

They Side-Apparate. She doesn’t let him splich himself or fall over into a puddle or rubbish bin on landing. He is quite convinced she is an angel. An absolute  _angel_.

…For twenty minutes, anyway. Then the truth comes out.

She is Satan.  _Satan._

(Or at least, Satan’s Spawn. The Yelling Healer—still on call—is Satan.)

“You did  _what_?” one of them yells.

(They both yell this quite often. All the yelling, yelling,  _yelling_.)

“You put a  _Reichter’s_ Binding Spell on your arm?” This one is Lily, outraged.

He answers in the affirmative. Maybe.

“Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea how  _strong_ that spell is? How much residual magic is left? Were you trying to  _cement_ your shoulder back in the socket? No wonder she couldn’t set your arm properly yesterday!”

“Still can’t set it entirely,” the Yelling Healer laments, sounding regretful, but James knows better. She’s rotating his arm back and forth and Satan has  _nothing_ on this woman.  _Nothing_. “I did warn you this might happen, Mr. Potter. Why you thought to handle this yourself instead of immediately going to a  _professional_ —”

(There is nothing professional about this virago.)

“—I will never know. Of  _all_ things—”

“He Apparated to my flat last night after taking the Shivren Potion, as well,” Lily pipes in, the bloody  _traitor._

“YOU DID WHAT?”Yelling Healer’s eyes are bulging. “Mr. _Potter—”_

Yelling, yelling,  _yelling_.

By the time they depart, Lily and the Yelling Healer (“She’s called Lucinda, James. Honestly.”) are kindred spirits practically weeping over their separation and James is grumpy and disillusioned and forced to make the grueling decision over whether to spend the next several hours lucid (but stiff and sore), or pain-free (lost in loopy stream of potion-dazed rapture). He has training in a few hours, so grudgingly chooses the former, which is attached to a goopy blue potion that feels like frog slime as it goes down. He tries to rotate his shoulder, and it’s like attempting to twist a wooden plank. When she sees him struggle, Lily finally recalls whose side she’s meant to be on.

“I don’t think you should go to training,” she says, nibbling at her lower lip as they depart hospital. “It isn’t smart.”

“I have to,” James argues. “You know—”

“Cliff Tufton. Yes, I know.”

“Right.”

“You’ll be no use to Puddlemere—or anyone—if you permanently injure yourself.” She’s becoming increasingly agitated. “You need to remember to take that potion again this afternoon. And if your fingers begin to feel numb, you  _have_ to stop. I don’t care if Cliff Tufton is riding on the back of your broom, demanding demonstrations. It can be a side effect. A fatal one. Or nearly fatal. I don’t know. Where’s the potion vial? It said something on the label—”

James lifts the potion vial (in his right hand) out of her reach. To her credit, she doesn’t hop for it. Just folds her arms over her chest, tapping her foot and looking cross.

“Why exactly is Cliff Tufton riding on the back of my broom?” he asks.

“Up-close assessment.” She scowls. “Wait. No. Stop. This isn’t a joke.”

“No?”

“It can be incredibly serious—”

“Hardly. Even your best mate Lucinda seems more concerned about scolding me than healing me. All my most important bits are still intact. And think of it this way: an unexpected death will make a  _brilliant_ turn for your article, eh?”

She pinches the bridge of her nose, perhaps praying for patience. James’s mum strikes a very similar pose from time to time.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” Lily mutters.

“Ride on the back of my broom?” James offers.

“Stop it.”

“We’d have to make room. You, me, and Cliff. A tight fit, but I reckon if we  _really_ squeeze—”

She’s stifling laughter now, changes it to a groan instead. “You’re terrible.”

James reckons she doesn’t really mind his terribleness. 

They Apparate back to his hotel. She won’t come up to his room, even though he is at his most helpless and charming. Instead, they stand in the corner of the lobby behind a tall potted fern, and Lily rises up on her toes and drops a kiss somewhere in the vicinity of his chin.

“Sorry,” she says immediately, cringing. “I was going for your cheek, then changed my mind, then changed it again. Ended up lost.”

“I have a few directions, if you need them,” James offers, chief among them:  _Come closer, and_   _let me bloody kiss you already._

She shakes her head. “Survive your training, and maybe I’ll borrow your map.”

It’s something, at least.

They finally separate after a dozen more warnings and one last thorough read-through of the potion label (“All right, maybe the numbness isn’t  _fatal_. But it isn’t  _good._ ”). There is a lot of talk of symptoms and broomsticks and cartography and James just wishes she would stay. But she’s Very Important and Busy, and Has A Job To Do, and Is Working On His Article, and Haven’t You Heard Of Integrity Or Boundaries Or A Hairbrush, For Merlin’s Sake?

James finds he Really Doesn’t Care.

But she leaves, and he leaves, and here he is now, hours later, on the brink of Quidditch-compelled suicide, and he doesn’t even have a single proper snog to show for it. He tries to concentrate on not killing himself in the sky. He tries to concentrate on catching the Quaffle, on avoiding the Bludgers, on maybe occasionally doing something worth his pay grade. He manages a handful of six-Knut tosses, and one exceptionally painful twelve-Galleon goal. He imagines what it might have been like to  _not_ leave bed this morning. ( _Blissful, blissful self-delusion.)_ That prompts an attempt at a gutsy fifty-Galleon Feegan Frisk with Marcie that he regrets immediately.

It is all infuriating and sad and almost humorous, and he’s beginning to wonder if he’s going a bit mad.

_Dodge. Twist. Catch. Throw. Lily. Throw. Catch. Lily. Fly. Fly. Lily. Catch. Throw._

“Oy, Potter! Get down here!”

Mid-throw, James’s gaze snaps down to the grass. Yates is standing by the tunnels, one hand holding his wand to his neck, amplifying his voice. The other waves James to the ground.

_Shit shit shit._

That could not be good.

Panicking that he’s given himself away, James takes his time getting to the ground, though he can’t say he isn’t wildly ecstatic for the reprieve. There are approximately forty-eight minutes left in the training session. He reckons he could have lasted one or two more of them. His shoulder feels like a metal weight. Survival has never seemed such a farfetched conclusion.

When he reaches the turf, he approaches Yates warily. The two other coaches are still watching his teammates in the sky. There’s a young boy jostling from foot to foot beside Yates, one of the Exhibition lads who was always running around doing errands. He stares at James eagerly.

“Good flying, Mr. Potter! Brilliant Frisk! I’ve a note for you. You’re my favorite Chaser here! Note’s very urgent. Can I have an autograph?”

James eyes the boy, then Yates. “What’s this?”

Yates holds up a piece of folded parchment. “Note for you. Apparently something important.”

James takes it slowly. “From who?”

Yates looks down at the grinning boy, who shrugs, still bouncing. “Was just told to bring it down.”

That sounded ominous. James has a moment of dread—could it be from Hoff? Tufton? Merlin’s beard, what if it was from Frederick Fords himself? What if the Puddlemere owner had decided to dismiss James this time with a paltry few written words, figuring him not even worth the effort of a proper meeting? Something akin to: “ _Better luck next time, failure. Unfondly, FF”_?

Was someone dead? Dying? Or maybe just his career? Bloody  _stupid_ goalpost has ruined his bloody  _stupid_ life and now  _everything_ has gone to shit—

He flips open the parchment.

 

**_Very IMPORTANT message !!! Urgent business etc etc. World domination. 007. Maps lifesblood numbness??. Etc etc._ **

**_Get off the pitch now._ **

**_xxxx_ **

****

There isn’t anything beyond that.

James stares at it. Reads it again. A third time.

_Was…?_

_(Bloody genius, meddlesome, heroic, barmy, cleverly insane girl.)_

He strives to keep a straight face. He’d like to laugh and cry and shout and then possibly sing with joyful relief, but he does none. Instead, he busies himself with ripping off the blank bottom half of the folded parchment.

“Got a quill?” James asks the errand boy.

Looking like he might wet himself with delight, the lad hands one over. James scrawls his signature onto the parchment, gives that half to the beaming boy, then folds up the remaining half. He sighs regretfully at Yates as he tucks it into the pocket of his training robes.

“I have to go handle this,” he says. “Hopefully I’ll be back soon.”

( _There was no way in fucking hell he’d be back soon_.)

Yates nods, unconcerned. He’s already yelling something up at Lufty, who has apparently just clocked a Bludger in the direction of Jools Betteridge’s very valuable head.

James departs the pitch to the sound of coaches shouting and Lufty’s cheerful apologies.

And just like that, the torture is over.

Done. Kaput. Finto. James speeds through the tunnels leading from the pitch feeling like an escaped convict: elated, panicked, and increasingly paranoid. He’s out, saved…but what’s he meant to do now? Where is he meant to go? Urgent business was quite a difficult thing to tackle when it didn’t actually exist. He could go back to the hotel perhaps, hide in his room. If anyone asked, he could be on a very important business Floo call. That sounded legitimate, didn’t it? He should head back to the locker room first, change out of his gear. Though would a bloke facing “urgent business” really stop off to make himself presentable? How urgent could it be if the situation allowed time for an outfit change? In fact, why was he strolling? Ought he to be running? But if he started running, where would he run  _to_? His shoulder likely wouldn’t appreciate the jostling, either. So running was out. Running was desperate, anyway. It was  _too_ much. Amateur move. Bloody hell, he used to be better at this. He was overthinking. He was  _supremely_ overthinking. He just ought to—

A hand shoots out from a doorway to his right, grabbing hold of his robes and yanking him inside.

James yelps. The door slams. His gaze swings around wildly—it’s a cupboard-sized therapy room. Prime location for a kidnapping—before finding Lily, back pressed against the recently slammed portal, her expression mulish.

“Don’t be angry,” she orders.

James’s head is still spinning.  _Lily. Lily!_ “What?”

“I know, I know,” she says. “Important future, Cliff Tufton, kissing Puddlemere’s arse…all very vital. Not my place to interfere. Shouldn’t have done.”

“Well—”

“But after pulling that  _barmy_  Frisk, you looked like you might very well keel over. So I thought, ‘Is it really interfering if he’s about to kill himself? Isn’t it  _intervening,_ then?’ Very different thing, intervening. So I intervened. Carefully. With the best of intentions. And since you’re  _here_ , accepting the intervening, and not back on the pitch, ignoring it, that proves I  _should_ have done. Right?”

Interfering? Intervening? “What?”

“You don’t look cross,” she observes, like he hasn’t spoken. “Are you cross?”

“I don’t look cross?”

“Not visibly, no. But I’ve only known you five days. I’ve never seen you cross. Maybe you’re one of those stony-faced angry sorts.” Her head tilts, considering this. “You don’t  _seem_ that sort. Are you that sort?”

“The silent and seething sort?”

“Exactly.”

“Er, no. I don’t think.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Yeah. Good.”

_Very, very good._

There is a long moment of silence. Then:

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks.

She starts, surprised. “Can you what?”

“Kiss you. Now.”

She grins slowly. “Well. You’re  _really_  not cross, are you?”

James shakes his head, stepping closer. “Opposite, really. Hero. Saviour. Am considering erecting a statue of you. Very big and glorious.  _Goddess Divine_ , they’ll call it, and people will come from all over to worship.”

Her lips press together. “Subtle use of ‘erecting’ there.”

“Slipped it in. Hardly noticeable.”

“One would hope it’s noticeable when it slips in.”

He has to stop, laughs. “You’re so much better at this than me. It’s hardly fair.”

“You hold your own,” she replies, but keeps him from proceeding even closer—the  _most_ closer. The  _necessary_ closer—with a palm against his chest. “Wait. I have a trade.”

“A snogging trade?”

“Not quite.”

“Lily—”

“Take off your clothes.”

James freezes ( _takeoffyourclothestakeoffyourclothestakeoffyourclothes). What? No. She. No. What—_

She bursts out laughing.

_Oh, bloody hell._

“Oh  _Merlin_. Your _face_.” She very nearly collapses against him in her hilarity. “Your—”

His  _face_? His breath putters out in an indignant huff. Blood has traveled. His voice is scratchy. “That wasn’t nice.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist.” Her fingers curl against his chest. “I’m also serious. Robes off. Shirt, too.”

He scowls. “Beat the dead hippogriff, why don’t you?”

She snorts at that. Her body twists, and she grabs something off a side table to her left. “Here,” she says, presenting it to him. “Apology gift.”

James takes the small tin she offers (with his right hand). His body continues to spark eagerly. As far as presents go, it’s a poor substitute for nudity. There’s no label, nothing indicating what might lie therein. He glances at Lily in question.

“I have a mate who’s a trainer with Falmouth,” she explains. “Quite familiar with asinine Quidditch players and their injuries. She concocts these sorts of remedies all the time. This should help with your shoulder.”

James pops open the tin top. The smell of lemons hits him immediately. The salve is a glossy-looking peach. He dips a finger inside, and immediately feels the balm heat up against his skin. His hand begins to tingle.

“Potent,” he observes. The cream absorbs into his skin. “What’s in it?”

Lily shrugs. “Merlin only knows. But it will help.” She takes the tin back, then motions with it. “Go on. Off with it.”

Bossy bits, wasn’t she? Probably a poor precedent to acquiesce so easily, but he’s simply not that strong. He removes his gloves first. Finger by finger. Tug. Discard. Then shrugs off his robes slowly, careful to keep his shoulder as still as possible. It is methodical, not the least bit tantalizing. He’s never felt more like a ponce. Still, from the way she’s grinning, you’d think he was gyrating on a pole. “I’m beginning to feel a bit objectified here, Evans,” he says.

The grin does not dim. “Poor thing.”

Chest pads next. Then the test. He’d gotten the shirt on this morning with a measured threading bad-arm/head/good-arm process, and would likely have to employ the same tactic here. But even that had been misery. It’s all a bit post-traumatic. He’s slow to start.

“Need assistance?” she offers.

He shoots her a look. “I’m injured. You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Is there a ‘too much’?”

“Where have your stringent ethics gone?”

“On furlough presently.”

“Ethics have furloughs?”

She pauses for a moment. Then: “I turned in the article to my editor this morning. Furlough.”

James stops. Everything stops. The whole bloody world. “You’re done? The article is done?”

Lily holds up a hand as if anticipating he might lunge at her at any moment, uncontrollably overcome (clever witch). “It’s  _turned in_ ,” she is quick to clarify. “A draft. That’s all. For all I know, my editor will red-mark the whole thing. He’s done it before. I could need to start from scratch.”

All James hears is  _turned in_. “But it’s finished.”

“A  _draft_ is finished.”

“When? _How_? I’ve been with you most of the time.”

Her eyebrows lift. “And were sleeping for most of it, weren’t you?”

It’s a fair point. “But it’s done.”

“A  _draft_ is done.”

“Still. Furlough.”

“Yes. Furlough.”

James has never stripped out of a shirt so quickly in his life.

“You’re going to hurt yourself—” The warning dies on her lips. She’s laughing now. Or choking. Or wincing. Maybe all three. “Bloody hell,” she says. “It looks even worse than this morning.”

James glances down, seeing the blotchy, purpling bruises as clearly as she. “But very dashing, yes?”

She rolls her eyes. “Supremely dashing. Sit down, idiot.”

There’s a long therapy table in the center of the room. It’s stark but cushioned, and when James sits, Lily follows him over. At this height, his face is nearly level with hers.  _Furlough. If I just_ —

She gives him a look, and quickly dodges behind him.

He tosses something resembling a sigh over his shoulder.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” she says. He hears the tin top pop open. Lemons. “Marlene said it should heat up. Loosen your muscles. Ease the sore. Then—”

As she continues to list off reactions, James waits for the first touch of her hands. When it does finally come, he feels the frigid cream first.  _Cold, cold, cold._ He jolts, just as it begins to rapidly heat.  _Hot, hot, hot._ Then her fingers—more tentative than he would have expected from her—prod the salve around.

Warmth. Touch. Tingling. Everything tingles.

_Fucking hell._

He moans quite loudly.

Lily’s hands immediately jerk back. “What? Does it hurt? Should I—”

“Nononono.” He’s babbling like a lunatic. “Good. Really good. Don’t stop. Fuck.”

She breathes a relieved laugh. Her hands move back onto his skin. The salve—her hands?—continues to work its magic. He wants to howl, and sing, and cry. (Too much of that going on today.) The soreness, stiffness…he feels his shoulder relax for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours. It’s such a sodding relief, he really could weep for it. Whoever this mate of hers is, James wants to find her and kiss her. (Kiss Lily first, you know, but this mate…she gets one, as well. Maybe two.) Then introduce her to the Yelling Healer. “See?” he will shout. “ _This_ is how you treat a poor, suffering patient!” Yelling Healer will be sad and chastised. James will be victorious and dignified. Lily will be there—likely consoling Best Mate Lucinda, but  _there_. That counts.

He is making sounds he will definitely be embarrassed about later. He’s a bit embarrassed about them now, frankly, but the relief is stronger. Lily spreads her fingers over his collarbone, then down across his back, to his arm. In lieu of actually knowing where to focus, she seems to be covering all possibilities. James does not mind this in the least.

Everything is silent for a few moments, save his very feral noises. It is practically transcendent.

Then, still massaging, she says, “I’ve been thinking.”

(Merlin help him, he  _sincerely_ hopes she doesn’t expect him to think right now.)

He manages an inquisitive enough noise, and she continues.

“This thing between us?” _Swift, cool fingers. Heavenly salve._ “I reckon we’ve made it much worse. Built it up. Overloaded it. Circumstances and anticipation and all of that. Like Bobby Cartonali.”

“Who?”

“He was this boy I fancied in school. Very fit. Played striker on the football team. I used to watch him nearly obsessively, wildly infatuated. And then one practice, he finally managed to look over in the stands and catch my eye. That was it. Asked me out that very afternoon. I spent the next three days waiting for our date in a frenzied daze of anticipation. Every time I saw him I went mental. When I didn’t see him, I was _thinking_ about seeing him, and _that_ drove me mental. All very dramatic.”

James frowns. “I don’t like this story.”

She continues anyway. “So the night of the date comes. He picks me up at my house. And because we are randy, impetuous teenagers, and are finally in this sanctioned moment, very nearly the first thing we do when we get to his car is snog.”

Brilliant. Fucking Bobby Cartface gets a snog?

He  _really_ doesn’t like this story. “And let me guess. It was wonderful. Mindblowing. Bobby Cartonali and his magical mouth. Where’s he now? The one that got away, clearly.”

She pinches his neck. James twitches at the sting.

“Aren’t you listening? That’s just it.” She sighs. “He wasn’t.  _It_ wasn’t.”

He’s still bitter about the pinch. “No?”

She rubs the spot, apologetic. “I mean, it was  _fine_. Pleasant, even. Nothing to go home crying about. But see, Bobby and I, we’d built it all up in our heads. All the anticipation. All the drama. It turned this perfectly normal attraction into this big, heady thing that was more mirage than anything else. And what good was that? We had to pop the bubble. The rose-coloured glasses, crazy, anticipation bubble.”

James finally starts to see where she’s going with this. “You reckon we need to pop our bubble?”

“You have to admit. It  _has_ become this creature unto itself, yeah?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s considering this, the big metaphor and the questionable whereabouts of Bobby Cartface, fit striker, mundane snogger. But James seems to wait too long for her tastes. No one likes admitting to seeing a mythical attraction creature without someone else admitting they believe in it, too. So she adds, a bit more hesitantly, “Hasn’t it?”

It’s so rare to see her uncertain. The pair of them have run the Getting to Know You gauntlet the past few days, but it’s only been a few days. Still, he seems to know instinctively that it’s not a comfortable or usual thing for her, this uncertainty. It’s not comfortable or usual for him, either, and Merlin knows he’s been drowning in it lately. Which is why he answers quickly, “Yes. Big creature. Very big. Bigger than Bobby Cartonali, certainly.”

She laughs at that, relieved, and her hands finally drop from his shoulder. He can feel the salve still seeping into his skin. He hears her pop the tin cover back in place, performs a quick cleaning spell likely to get it off her hands. Then she slowly steps around to the front of the table.

“Feel all right?” she asks.

He nods, watching her carefully.

She takes a few steps closer. “Don’t move.”

“Why?”

The tops of her thighs brush against his knees. “Because I’m going to pop the bubble.”

Then she kisses him.

 _Kisses him. Is kissing him. Is finally, finally kissing him._ Her mouth on his mouth. Slow, slick slips. The taste of her and the brushes of skin. It only takes a few moments. _One, two, three._ She pulls back with a sudden groan.

“Shit.” Her forehead drops to his, exasperated. “You’re not at all like Bobby Cartonali, are you?”

James doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. Words are beyond him. He just cups her face (with his right hand) and brings her mouth back down to his.

 _He’s kissing_ _her._ Five days later, with too many false starts. They launch nearly immediately into hard swipes, into open lips, hard and glorious pressure. The bubble is popped. A messy, eager popping. _He_ is messy and eager, his mouth rampant. If she minds, she doesn’t indicate. Is perhaps too busy being messy and eager herself. They are two messy and eager people with mouths attached who were vaguely hoping that this might have proven a bit less than what it’s seemed. But now that it hasn’t done, there’s nothing quite to do but relish it.

James does relish it. Headily.

More lips. _More_. She’s too good at this. Too bloody good at everything. Her mouth is warm and quick and she does this bit with her tongue that should be outlawed in seven out of ten countries. His hand skims from her jaw to her hair. He pulls it from whatever concoction she’s got it tied back in. It’s even softer than he remembers. Her fingers are clumsy, knocking into the curved end of his specs, tilting them askew. All he can smell is lemons. All he can taste is her. His lips are chapped and she nips at the lower one with her teeth.

His body is aflame. He wants to imprint on her skin. He’s presently complacent to just imprint his mouth with hers.

Then it’s gone.

“Waitwaitwait,” she breathes out shakily.

James buries his groan of protest into her neck.

“Rules,” she says.

“ _Rules_?” He whines it. He knows he does.

She stokes his hair, placating. “It’s a furlough. Not exoneration.”

“Technicality,” James complains, but nearly immediately shuts up when she prods him backward and climbs atop the therapy table, too. She’s astride his lap, knees hugging his hips.

_Oh, bloody glorious hell._

“Rule one,” she begins, holding up a finger. “No more clothes come off.”

“Well, _that’s_ unfair,” James says. “One of us is decidedly less clothed than the other.”

She sighs. “Fine.”

Then her top is gone.

 _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._ Very nearly all smooth skin and one paltry bit of black lace and wire. James grunts. He gawks. He gives himself thirty seconds before he can no longer resist exploring. If she would just hand over her bloody map, they can all be happy.

“Oy.” Her finger taps his chin. “Eyes up here, mate.”

There are several things coming _up_. James very diligently requires his eyes to be one of them.

“I’m listening.” ( _Twenty seconds.)_ “Rule two?”

“Rule two,” she says. “Don’t let me hurt you.”

“Is this a sadism thing?”

“It’s a dislocated shoulder thing.”

“Ah.” Good point. “Excellent suggestion.”

“I thought so.”

Her hands move between them, drifting up his torso until they’re at his face. She carefully slips off his glasses, tossing them onto the table beside them. The movements are slight, the friction minimal—little more than a brush—and yet James feels it everywhere.

 _Ten seconds_.

“Is there a rule three?” he asks. He bucks up into her. Deliberately. Toying. There must be six layers of clothes between them, and yet there might as well be nothing at all.

She makes a keening noise, bites her lip.

“There was,” she admits. Her hands sift into his hair. She grinds back. “Can’t remember it now.”

_Fuck. Yes. There. That._

“Onward, then?” he asks.

She laughs. “Onward.”

_Three, two, one._

**\+ + +**

**DAY FIVE (Later)**

 

_Dear Messrs. Padfoot, Moony, Wormtail—_

_URGENT NEWS FROM EXHIBITION-LAND, RE: YOUR IMMINENT ARRIVAL TOMORROW:_

_(Aside: v. v. chuffed to see you lot, reunions huzzah etc. Third formal request to please leave “Hot for Pot” banners at home. They are neither funny nor clever, you are only embarrassing yourselves.)_

_Sometime tomorrow evening after matches and Quidditch and jolly good times etc, we will be taking a trip to the most properly brilliant of dives, The Cornish Pixie, where I will be softening you up with liquor and introducing you to a VERY IMPORTANT WITCH. This witch is called Lily and she is a Junior Quidditch Correspondent with the Prophet and also a woman I fancy—VERY VERY MUCH. Some of us have already made dubious impressions (Sirius—though m. thks for the expletive loyalty) and have I mentioned I fancy her VERY VERY MUCH?_

_She is lovely, and bloody gorgeous, and hilariously clever, and v. v. smart, and knows Quidditch, and has let me do all sorts of unmentionably dirty things to her upon therapy tables (DO NOT TELL HER I TOLD YOU THIS). I cannot overstress the point: DO NOT SCARE HER OFF._

_She is…quite the thing, lads. Quite the serious thing._

_Have told her bloody lies, extolling you all as the most brilliant of mates. Please do play along._

_Until tmrw, you worthless curs—_

_Prongs_

_P.S.—Am even willing to barter one “Hot for Pot” banner for good behaviour. But for the love of Merlin, please not the one with the picture._


	6. Day Six (Beginning)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Six was always intended to be a bit of an opus, and I was sort of grappling with how to present it. So in an attempt not to make it 20,000 words and a bit all over the place, I'm going with a beginning, middle, end break-down (which also allows for quicker updates, huzzah hurrah!). Enjoy the beginning. =)

**\+ + +**

**DAY SIX (Beginning)**

 

James wakes up the morning of Day Six disoriented, hungover, and with a general sense of delayed reality.

It takes a moment to piece it all together. _Ugh. Ah._ Several moments. _What…_ he thinks at nearly the same time as _Please do not vomit in your mouth._ There’s a noise, a call. (A voice?) He will open his eyes in a second, he’s sure. As soon as his head quits spinning.

Spinning and spinning, from the sleep, the drink ( _he needs to quit drinking_ )… but mostly from all the questions, questions, _questions_.

They are a plague. A menace.

James would like to blame Day Six. It would be quite nice to blame the day, this wretched dry-mouthed morning, and be done with it. Would be nice to blame the alcohol as well ( _bloody…scotch?_ ), but that wouldn’t be precisely fair either. Not entirely, anyway. _He’d_ started the Snitch flying, after all, with all the questions, questions, _questions_. And not even on Day Six. If he’s meant to pinpoint it exactly, it seems that the questions, questions, _questions_ technically began on Day Five, at nearly the precise moment following one of James’s new very, very favourite things in the world:

Touching Lily Evans, Junior Quidditch Correspondent.

He doesn’t mean to ask. Not really. But he’s lying despondent on the therapy table, very nearly snogged and swerved into a coma, and she’s hunting for her top somewhere on the floor (which seems to James one of the world’s greatest tragedies), and he just _fancies_ _her_ _so much_ —like a child, like a man, like a fiend—and all he can think about is when he can see her next, do this next, just stand beside her next, but there’s an obvious obstacle in that (one of several, even), and then somehow he’s asking if she’ll come meet his mates for drinks the next evening.

(Behold: Question #1)

She’s found her top. She’s tugging it on as he poses the idea and she just sort of freezes there, mid-donning, skin half-covered.

“You want me to what?” she asks. (Question #2)

“They arrive tomorrow,” he blathers, swamped immediately with panic, with mortification, with desperate, incomprehensible _eagerness_. “So they’ll be here. And you’ll be here. It’s evening. You won’t be working. I won’t be working. No one will be working.”

“That’s—”

“We can go to the Cornish Pixie,” he continues. “Home crowd. For you. They’ll like it there. My mates, that is. And Hurley probably misses us. I’m sure of it.”

“James.” She’s beside him now, properly clothed again. He still isn’t. His shoulder is pleasantly numb. Her head tilts. Red hair hangs like curtained silk on either side of her face. It kinks and curls at strange angles, like his has lent hers some of its spirit, though he imagines it’s just from his hands. From this angle, still lying on the table, the strands seem closer to him than they likely are. He wants to reach out and touch them. Again. He can. He thinks. So he does.

He is a toddler in his cot, grappling for the mobile.

“Have I snogged you stupid?” she asks, watching him. (Question #3)

“Highly possible,” he concedes. He twirls her hair with his fingers. “I’d like you to meet them,” he says next. Stupidly. Honestly. “Please.”

Her hand covers his, stilling the twirling. He twists his wrist around and clasps their fingers together. She watches it all warily. He knows she’s wary. He ought to be, too. Instead, he is a ponce. A soppy, silly, definitely stupid _ponce_. He squeezes another _please_ into her hand anyway, and her mouth thins. Then she sighs.

“All right.”

His heart skips a beat. “All right?”

She smiles. Like she doesn’t want to, but can’t help it. “Yes.”

“You’ll meet my mates.”

“You truly want me to?” (#4)

“You didn’t think I would?” (#5)

She shrugs. “Not certain what to think about any of this, really.”

That makes two of them. He’s trying not to dwell on it—is just running with it blindly, in a way he hasn’t done in ages. But he seems to know one thing for certain: “I want you to meet my mates.”

She bits her lip, then nods. “Then…all right.”

All right. She’s said all right. Several times, even. And fortunately for him, there isn’t much time left for her to balk. Training is meant to let out at any minute. The corridors will be filled with people, and even in his giddy panic, James can still recognise why it would be an exceptionally poor outcome for them to be discovered right now. So he lets her go, kissing her one last time for posterity, and remains in the therapy room for fifteen more minutes until he’s certain he can leave without skipping down the tunnels. He Apparates back to the hotel, and writes what he will later come to realise is a very foolish letter to his mates.

Twenty minutes after the owls have flown, he gets a reply from Peter:

_Dearest Prongs,_

_I regret to inform you that all Hot for Pot banners now contain pictures. Will have to be more specific in excluding individual pieces from bribery contention, or risk ultimate disappointment._

_(On a comforting note: You are only naked in several of them.)_

_Am delighted to meet your lady. Though, truly, you sound cracked._

_Fondly,  
_ _W._

Thirty minutes after that, there is an insistent knock at his door.

In his mindless delusions, James decides it must be Lily. She’s changed her mind. ( _No._ ) She hasn’t at all. ( _Yes._ ) Either way, he swings it open with gusto.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Sirius says from the other side of the portal, holding up James’s letter, “is _this_?”

(Question #6)

James is disappointed. Then delighted. Then exasperated.

“Hullo, mate,” he mutters, leaning against the door. “So glad to see you, too. It’s been ages.”

“Don’t try to butter me up, you wanker.” Sirius stomps into the room, and James closes the door behind him. There is a lot of waving and flapping. Sirius tousles James’s hair, then attempts to thwack him over the head with the parchment.

“Thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow.” James dodges the abuse, then stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Something about the very important schedules of very rich, indolent wizards?”

“Being a very rich, indolent wizard is exceptionally time-consuming,” Sirius says, but the familiar rejoinder is given so bleakly, his face is so comically grim, that James has to laugh. Sirius is still clutching the letter so tightly it crinkles and crumbles. “Prongs.”

“What?”

“What are you doing? What _is_ this?” (#7)

“A letter.”

“Fuckwit.”

“You’re being dramatic,” James says. “I admit, I've been a bit wonked on pain potion—”

“Pain potion?”

“For my shoulder.”

“What’d you do to your shoulder?” (#8)

James waves off the alarm. “Dislocated it the other day. But it’s fine now. Nothing to make a ruckus about. Lily—”

“Oh. Yes. Right. _Lily._ ” Sirius nearly spits her name. “A _reporter_ , mate? Are you out of your bloody mind? You're fucking a _reporter_?” (#9)

James frowns. “Oi. Watch it. It’s not like that. She’s not like that.”

“Watch it? Merlin…”

“Sirius.” James is adamant, rattled. He’s surprised that he’s also a bit angry. With _Sirius._ For inane, utterly typical, very nearly expected griping. _Hell_. It’s added to the myriad other emotions that have been running him ragged the past few days. He’s confused, and confounded, and brewing an overflowing cauldron of _what the fuck_ am _I doing_ (#10) and _how can I do it more_ (#11), and there’s no single person in the entire world who knows him as well as the blighter standing in front of him, and in some ways James has been counting on that.

There’s no blind acceptance with Sirius. He’s a test and a trial, always. Dousing reality may not be the worst thing right now. James can see that. Was his soppy letter an unspoken SOS? No. Possibly. Maybe?

Fuck it. 

Sirius eyes him steadily. “Mate…”

James sighs. “Sit down.”

It’s around this time that James has the hotel send up the first bottle of absurdly expensive scotch, a proper companion as he sits with his best mate to explain the whole thing—from arse-catching start, through interview rubbish, to Tufton and Moors and wireless shenanigans, shoulder woes and stalking endeavours, all the way to not-quite-(though-Merlin-help-him-very-nearly)-orgasmic therapy table finish.

It’s a lot to take in. James knows that. A lot…and yet, not much really.

Sirius listens silently. James is aware how he sounds—how the whole thing sounds. Like insanity. Like circumstances blown way out of proportion. Stress-induced chaos. Like James is eleven years old and has just found his first copy of _PlayWizard_ and now the whole world takes on the tinge of a wet dream and he’s been caught up in the salacious possibilities. Lily is the mythical, magical, mystery princess of his dreams and James is getting lost in the story.

He knows how it sounds, but it’s _not_ how it sounds. He’s not sure why or how, and he’s most especially certain he can’t easily prove it, but it’s _not_.

Sirius latches on to the doubt, of course.

“It’s been five days, mate,” is the first thing he says, once James has run out of things to say, is _exhausted_ by all the things he does and doesn’t know how to say. “You’ve known this witch for little more than a hundred hours.”

“Five days. Right. I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” James grips his hair. Grips his scotch. Both. Either. “I _know_ it sounds like I’ve gone utterly spare, all right? Take the key and lock him up. All of it. I get it. I can’t explain that bit. But it’s—she’s—”

“She’s a reporter, Prongs.” He says it very nearly kindly, which tells James everything he needs to know. “Her _job_ is to make you feel comfortable. Quickly. Effectively. She wants to get under your skin so you talk more. She’s been _trained_ for it.”

“She’s a sport correspondent. She doesn’t work for bloody _Witch Weekly,_ ” James snaps.

“She’s clever.”

“Yes.” _And smart. And beautiful. And brave and resilient and interfering and curious and brilliant._ “But not like you mean.”

Sirius just gives him a look. “Fine. Lily Evans is a wonder. But you’ve…it’s been a mad few weeks, yeah? Coming back from America. Your shoulder. All this with Puddlemere…maybe you’re looking for distraction—”

“This is not about fucking Puddlemere!”

“No?”

“No!”

But James realises then that he hasn’t really thought about _fucking Puddlemere_ in what seems like forever, and now that worries him.

Sirius is right. James knows Sirius is right just as surely as he knows he’s wrong, wrong, _wrong_ , but James is at a loss as to explain why and all the _questions, questions, questions_ are piling up. He wants to drink until he forgets every single one of the _questions, questions, questions_.

He groans. Loudly. “I don’t know what the bloody fuck I’m doing.”

Sirius snorts. “I can see that.”

“I should be focusing on Quidditch. On Puddlemere. This is my career. My _life_.”

“Right.”

“But if you meet her…I’m not mad, Sirius. She’s…”

“A witch,” Sirius says. “Just a witch.”

_Yes. But no. Maybe not._

James buries his face in his hands. “What am I supposed to do?” (#12)

“What we always do when all else fails.” Sirius pours him more scotch. Gluck. Chug. “Get fantastically sloshed. Cheers.”

Glasses clink. More scotch is poured (several bottles worth— _how many bottles worth_?). By the end of the night, James _is_ sloshed, but the end result is only shoddy, scary soliloquies with lines like _everything’s different it’s so_ and _bloody Puddlemere, they’ll do it again_ _what do I do_ and _luff you, mate_ and _think I could luff her too, mate_ and more _what do I do_.

This brings him back to the morning of Day Six. Poor, innocent, bedeviled Day Six. The impromptu rousing—the call, the voice—is the sound of Hoff attempting an early-morning Floo call. It's quite simply one of the worst things James's agent has ever done to him. With a pounding head and too many memories considering his recent alcohol consumption, James stumbles to the fireplace to answer.

“How’s my favourite client?” Hoff asks, too cheerfully. (#13)

(Answer: _Fucked_.)

“Have you heard anything from Puddlemere?” James asks instead. (#14)

“Nothing official. But good reports—always good reports! Tufton was impressed the other day, you can be sure.” Hoff grins broadly. It hangs there. Silence. He clears his throat. “Had another call from Carson this morning, as well.”

Paulie Carson was James’s coach in Fitchburg.

“They’ve upped their offer again,” Hoff says lightly, and James can tell he’s struggling to be casual about it. “Doubled it, in fact.”

“ _Doubled_?”

“They’re eager for you to stay. Single-game scoring record last season and all.”

Bloody hell. It’s balm to his bruised ego, to be certain. The club already pays him an absurd salary. James respects Paulie and his teammates in Fitchburg, had enjoyed his time in America and what it had taught him. They’d stepped in, trusted him, when few others would have done. But James’s circumstances have always made it so that money was the one thing he didn't  _truly_ have to consider. And at least in this, he knows what he wants. “I want to come home, Hoff. I can’t sign again in America.”

“Understood,” Hoff says, but James knows the agent will likely weep about his lost 15% later. There’s another loaded pause. Hoff is filled with them this morning. “But in that case, I did get a few interesting calls this week. Yesterday—”

“From Puddlemere?”

“No.”

“Let’s wait on Puddlemere. I want Puddlemere.”

There’s a sigh in Hoff’s overly bright smile. “Right. What I thought. Will let you know when I hear, then. See you at the match later. Play well!”

The agent’s face disappears from the fire. A fierce knocking begins at the hotel door. James’s head continues to pound. Sirius, sprawled upon the hotel bed, fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes and drooling, yells expletives at the noise.

James stumbles to the door. He jerks it open.

“Good morning,” Remus says, holding a cup of coffee. Peter stands beside him, holding a Hot for Pot banner (upon which there is, predictably, a picture of naked James). “Why do you look like shit?”

(Question #15)


	7. Day Six (Middle)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, I suck. But at least it's here, right? (she says pathetically, hopefully, apologetically)
> 
> Also, please indulge me in the way I've just entirely made up the details of how professional Quidditch works, and doubled-down on how Quidditch press works, too. ("But Bee, why does your sports press line seem more like a red carpet--" "SHUT UP I DON'T KNOW I ONLY WATCH GYMNASTICS CAN WE JUST GO WITH IT.")
> 
> Enjoy. =)

**\+ + +**

**DAY SIX (Middle)**

Day Six requires a reset, James is quick to decide. A reset, a revival, a resurrection.

Goodbye, rubbish. Hullo, deliverance.

He will salvage this wreck. Salvage his _sanity_. He’s determined. Resolved.

Though, admittedly…his timing could be better.

The team has the first match of morning—a fact James truly wishes he’d thought to recall approximately eight hours, two rows, and (undetermined) bottles of scotch ago. Foresight has clearly never been his forte. Neither, apparently, is self-control. He feels raw, positively splinched at the edges. Hoff’s call has unnerved him. His visitors have undone him. As he rushes around the now-crowded hotel room, gathering the remnants of ~~dignity~~ equipment he’d haphazardly discarded the evening before, that point becomes increasingly obvious.

But his mates are here, the lovely, useless bastards. His people. His _family._ James is heartened and resigned and exasperated and _happy_ to be properly reunited with them…while simultaneously noting that he may have appreciated it more without feeling like someone’s taken a Beater’s bat to his head.

(He’d meant to plan this properly. He’s certain he had done.)

(Ow, ow, _ow._ )

No family is without its dysfunction, of course. Sirius is cocooned in blankets and drama, refusing to leave the bed. Remus and Peter are jovial, but clearly feel as if they’ve missed something (have done). Peter combats this by chattering incessantly. Remus cocks a questioning eyebrow at the whole tableau—prima donna in bed, empty whiskey bottles strewn about, vague sense of panic in the air—to which James can only sigh back an unspoken, _Later_.

He is tired, tired, tired, and late, late, _late_.

Bugger, bugger, _bugger._

“We’ll see you after?” Remus asks as James eyes his wrinkled practice robes huddled at the base of the bed with muted distaste. They reek like a distillery. The whole bloody room does. He reaches for them anyway, glad to find he _can_ reach—his shoulder is still a bit sore, but the stiffness seems to have gone. He can lift and rotate it readily (praise Merlin!). He performs a quick cleaning spell, dons the soiled robes, and nods at Remus before summoning his missing arm pad, which zooms out from beneath an armchair, bent and dusty.

Lovely.

“I’ll find you,” James answers hurriedly, unbending, undusting. “Don’t know how long I’ll be. Have to duck out of the press line—”

Peter clears his throat. “Speaking of _press_ —”

“No!” Sirius snaps.

They all turn.

“No?” asks Peter.

“Bloody arse is seeing nargles,” Sirius mutters, glaring at James. “Don’t listen t’him. Can’t be trusted.”

“Leave off my nargles,” James returns, scowling.

Peter snorts. Remus sends James another pointed look ( _Silly ponce,_ it clearly chastises. _You expected a reaction other than this?),_ and James shrugs (can shrug!) a noncommittal, _Eh_.

“Well, _I_ want to hear more about your lady,” Peter says, grinning happily again. “We’ve bought her a present, after all.”

He gives the Hot for Pot banner another jolly wave, and James watches his photoself—very clearly nude, very clearly delighted about it—wink and pose from banner-land.

(He’d insist it’s a doctored photo, but honestly, he can’t be certain.)

(He dives for it, but dodgy Peter can be a fast little bugger when humiliation is on the line.)

(Humbling, that.)

Three minutes later, James is out the door: defeated, irritated, banner-less.

This is not improved once he’s besieged.

He ought’ve expected it. Day Six means the exhibition is now officially open to the public, and Quidditch fans have poured into the area like a veritable tidal wave of shouts, colors, and unhinged enthusiasm. James is stopped at least a half-dozen times before he can even clear the hotel. One bloke asks for an autograph, then subjects James to a six-minute diatribe on the state of Fitchburg’s defense. A middle-aged mum with two kids in tow propositions James so outrageously as she’s snapping a photo that he wants to slap his hands over the innocent children’s ears, spare them the indignity. A positively ancient wizard dressed head-to-toe in Appleby pale blue mistakes James for Rodger Jostins and is so joyously thrilled by the prospect that James doesn’t have the heart to correct him.

(He’d wanted a reset, not a reincarnation. But at least _someone’s_ pleased with him.)                   

He is the last to arrive in the locker room. Lorri is still stretching in the corner. Jools calls, “Good morning, good morning!” as James shuffles in. Lufty already has the Ogden’s out and is preparing his shot. James quells an immediate gag reflex at the smell.

No one mentions his leaving training early the day before. No one mentions his tardiness now, either. The room is busy and chipper and apparently disinterested in the dramas and schedules of their youngest Chaser. It’s a wild relief. James snaps on his wireless (returned from the vents?) and after a Broomstyx hit and a Ruff Ratherford power ballad, Sleekeazy is the second advert to play.

“ _Sllllleeeeeeeekeazy!…two drops for hair to pleasy! Dare to care—”_

“No-oo!” Marcie groans as the locker room laughs. “Why won’t it leave us alone?”

James doesn’t turn off the wireless, but there is a smattering of cheers and applause when the next advert to play is indeed something new. But in spite of the jingle, James still feels off. Like he’s chipped and nicked in all the wrong places. Like he’s got a balloon slowly inflating inside his chest. A quick Hangover Charm is slow to take effect. He can’t kick a general sense of bewilderedness. His shoulder has retained its ugly shade of splotched purple, and since he’d rather avoid questions, questions, _questions_ , he pops open the miracle tin from Lily’s mate and applies the salve with his shirt still on. It’s clumsy work.

He thinks of Lily as he salves. ( _Don’t think of Lily_.) Thinks of his mates. ( _Don’t think of your mates.)_ Thinks of an island he might escape to where he can be alone with only fruity drinks and the crashing waves to keep him company.

_(Yes, all right.)_

(Oops, no—there’s Lily again, wearing a grassed hula skirt and not much else, bless her.)

“Is that lemons?” asks Jools suddenly, startling James out of his perverted fantasies. He jumps, but Betts already has her nose pressed to his robes, sniffing enthusiastically. She pulls back grinning. “Well. Don’t you smell pretty, Potter?”

James goes scarlet. “Prettier than you,” he mutters.

She smirks, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yes, see, but some of us actually _play_ hard enough to sweat, eh?”

He chokes out a laugh, popping the salve top back on. “Touché.”

At his easy concession, she gives him a curious look. “All right?”

James shrugs, wishes he knew.

There is not much opportunity for further banter or contemplation. The alarm is sounded—time to depart for the pitch. Before they leave, Klinderson gathers the team for a pre-match pep talk.

“Penultimate match, comrades,” he says, slapping Dooster on the back with one meaty hand. (Doos, impressively, only winces slightly.) “Let’s give the rabid masses something to cheer for!”

They all whoop and clap their agreement. James does his best to contribute. Then it’s out the door, onward.

( _Onward.)_

The stadium is a madhouse, each section of stands filled to the brim. James blinks at the sudden sunlight, but the Hangover Charm seems to finally be doing its job—a vague twinge is the only reminder of this morning’s foibles. He tries not to examine the surroundings too much. Tries not to contemplate just who is in those stands today, how each of them matters. He can’t. Not now. Not three minutes before play. The warning whistle blows.

He kicks off and lets the wind take him.

He expects to be distracted on the pitch. How could he _not_? But it is—surprisingly, fortunately—just the opposite. They’re up against a formidable lot, including James’s presumed double, Rodger Jostins, and Alla Abdel, a prodigy seeker fresh out of school who’s rumoured to be one of the fastest flyers the game has seen in ages. Lorri is good— _very_ good—but James knows they can’t depend on her points this match. He, Dooster, and Marcie will need to pad the score as much as possible to manage a victory.

The crowd is roaring from the very start. They lose the Quaffle on the release, but gain it back with a well-timed Bludger from Klinderson. Marcie grabs it in the freefall, and despite the sparse drills run yesterday, James moves easily into formation. When the Quaffle comes to him, he’s able to whip it over to Dooster without the same tormenting rigidity that had made the exact maneuver near impossible the day before. Dooster is a bit clumsy with the catch, but makes up for it with a key feint and a zapping shot. It sails through the left hoop, just as the keeper dives.

Ten points.

More cheering.

James lets out a long breath.

He knows this. He _loves_ this. The last few months have been…Merlin, he doesn’t know. A million things. A million, sometimes not-so-great things. Sirius was right about that. And this past _week_ …James feels like he’s lost his damned mind a hundred times over. Coming back to England. Puddlemere. His mates. His parents. Hoff. _Lily_ (most certainly Lily). He knows he hasn’t handled it all as he might have done once: casual and cavalier, resolved and resilient.

He’s been knocked down a few pegs, taught to worry. And while it’s not necessarily a bad thing to learn some consideration, some humility, in the flux he seems to have lost touch with the taste for _this_ : a love for this game. For what he’s done. Accomplished. For what he can do, and can’t do, and will fight like hell for anyway.

It feels good, coming back to that now. It’s a reminder he needs, today more than most.

When the hell had he lost it?

_Reset._

As he pulls off a textbook Backhand Bernham with Dooster, flying past the goal posts as his shot sails through the center hoop, James finds the person he most wants to discuss this all with is Lily. She’d get it, he reckons. She’d know what to do, what to say. And rather than worrying him, that makes him feel better.

(So much better, he scores three more goals in the next fifteen minutes. But who’s counting?)

(Well, he is, obviously. And the scoreboard. And likely Lily, too. And his mates. And Hoff. And Tufton—fucking hell, _Tufton_. Is he watching? Of course he’s watching. But— _shutupshutupshutupPLAY._ )

James plays.

He plays his bloody heart out.

\+ + +

They lose the match, 270-350.

His very first exhibition loss.

James is…conflicted.

Well, perhaps not so much _conflicted_ as _content_ , which in itself seems like it ought to be a conflict. It was a brilliant battle, though, well-played on nearly every front. Relatively green as he still may be, James knows the rarity of that sort of outcome. Victory has transcended the numbers displayed on the pitch, and everyone—from the (overly competitive) players in the sky, to the (forever finicky) fans in the stands—seems to agree. It’s a loss in scoreboard only.

Which is not to say that James isn’t disappointed. Only human, isn’t he? He’s had a revelation, a rekindling, and what better way to pay that proper homage than with points? A scoreboard _win_ would have been preferable in most ways, all things considered.

But despite the end result, he feels…good.

Good?

Yes. That’s it. _Good_. Validated. Satisfied.

Fancy that.

Better yet, these seem to be shared sentiments. The post-match locker room is filled with good-natured sighs, heady recaps, and teasing ribs. Marcie is laughing loudly with Lufty. Klinderson’s bulky chest puffs as he accepts praise for his prime batwork from Betts. Even Lorri, ultimately felled by Abdel on the chase, has her chin up, her back straight, occasionally smiling. They’ve all been through this before, will go through it again. It’s the job.

 _Play worthy,_ James thinks, that old Puddlemere adage. But there’s valiancy in defeat, too.

Interesting, that.

…though perhaps not nearly as _interesting_ as what he somehow finds himself doing next.

In retrospect, he’ll never be able to account for the logic of it. He watches it all happen as if outside of himself, floating there above the madness. There’s a recognizable dance to the post-match process. Victory or loss, content or conflicted, it’s all the same: cool down, change gear, gird your loins accordingly. Eventually, the team will file out of the locker room. Outside, one of the exhibition wranglers will be waiting to herd the lot of them up to the press line. James is a near expert at this bit by now: wait for movement, give the (heavily bribed) wrangler a wink, and then it’s off through the roughshod door to the left that leads down to the equipment room and out the back exit of the stadium. No mess. No press. Freedom.

The team gathers. The movement starts. The roughshod door is there.

James sees it. Stares at it. His feet are moving. He stares harder.

Passes it.

(What?)

Passes the next potential escape, too.

(What is he doing?)

And the last.

( _What is he doing?)_

 _Oh, bloody hell,_ he thinks, at nearly the same moment his feet seem to be chanting, _march, march, march!_ He’s marching? He’s marching. Why is he marching? He doesn’t understand. He’s certain his brain did not make this choice. His feet have gone rogue. The order’s gone out from up top— _stop_ —and filtered down, getting corrupted somewhere in the vicinity of his chest, so all his feet are hearing is _stomp._ Not the same thing at all, _stop_ and _stomp_. Very important letter, that _m._ Cannot be spoken more disparagingly of, that _m._ Please, Merlin help him, someone explain to his feet about the _m._ Why won’t they listen? It makes not the slightest bit of sense.

And yet on they go, the damned recalcitrant limbs.

He’s not the only one grappling in confusion. Standing outside the press room (what what _what_ ) as the other team finishes up their round, Betts is eyeing him in sharp question. Dooster, likewise, gives a double-take when he spots James still with them at the threshold.

“What’s this?” Doos asks.

James jerks a shoulder. It’s a truly compelling question.

“Stick close, yeah?” he tells Doos instead, feeling a bit bleary-eyed. “Dunno what the fuck I’m doing.”

Dooster is still laughing as the wrangler gives the signal and they all walk inside.

James is immediately blinded.

_Flash. Murmur. Flash. Shout. SHOUT. FlashflashflashflashshoutshoutSHOUT._

They’ve noticed him, of course. Two dozen people begin whispering—then yelling—his name.

Is there always this much yelling?

He ignores them. Sticks to Dooster’s back like a toddler clinging to mum. Looks up, searching.

_No, no, no—he’s press?—no, no—_

_Yes._

She’s toward the back of the pack. Hair up, black dress, trusty credentials hanging around her neck. There is a pad of paper in her hands, but that’s all he can really see from this vantage point. Their eyes meet. He can see the green even from here. Bright. Surprised. Her brows shoot up to her hairline.

 _What’s this?_ they ask.

He grins bravely. _Unpredictable, aren’t I?_

Her lips purse. _Something like that_.

She begins to push toward the front, and James stifles a giddy laugh.

The team fans out. This isn’t a formal press conference. They saddle up to whoever in the line catches their attention. Or perhaps it’s more strategic than that. James truly wouldn’t know. He’s the proverbial hippogriff foal on shaky legs, stumbling about blindly. Sam Lockley from _Quidditch Weekly_ gives him a welcoming smile from behind the barricade, and James reckons he’s as good a place to start as any. Dooster seems to agree, and they amble over together.

“Truly excellent match, lads!” Lockley says in greeting, beaming victoriously. “Full of surprises. Eh, Potter?”

Potter. That’s him.

“Er…yes. That’s…well. Yes. The surprises.” _Oh, for fuck’s sake._ “Hate for things to be dull for you, Sam.”

James hopes his overly-bright smile compensates for the fumbling.

Sam—bless him—doesn’t seem deterred by the slips.

“First time you’re playing on the same side, isn’t it?” he asks them both, apparently understanding the comfort in numbers plot and kind enough to lob them a few easy tosses. “Seems to be working up there. What’s that been like?”

“Trying to keep the Quaffle away from this hog? Near impossible,” Dooster jokes, elbowing James in the chest. Cameras flash. “Give a bloke a few scoring records and goes straight to his head, it does.”

“Oh, were you meant to be playing, as well?” James asks, finding stride. “Explains why you kept getting in the way of my shots.”

Doos laughs and throws an arm around James’s shoulders. “When can I ship this tosser back to America?”

Lockley grins. “No time soon, from what I hear.”

There’s a pointed, expected pause. The reporter is waiting for James to respond. Of _course_ he is. For the first time, James realises the press might interpret his appearance here as some kind of signal. It’s long been understood that if James was signed to Puddlemere—to _anywhere_ , really—these kinds of appearances would be expected. He can’t play his same avoidance game back on British soil, with the kind of hefty contract he’s demanding brewing beneath the cauldron.

But that’s hardly a done deal at this point, and James is not sure he should— _could_ —explain that the real reason he’s here has less to do with career, and more to do with some kind of mental break and a pair of knowing green eyes.

Speaking of…

Dooster has filled the lull of James’s non-confirmation with some clever spiels about the ease of play between the three Chasers on their side—professionals, competitors, etcetera…James makes humming noises of agreement, but his eyes focus just beyond Sam Lockley’s shoulder as Lily stealthily slides in behind the other reporter. James tries not to be terribly obvious, but is likely not overly successful. His heart patters in his chest. He feels like he’s gulped a lungful of fresh air. Lily— _of course_ —ignores his keen attention and instead keys into the interview dynamic. She is very clearly unimpressed with his efforts. With a pointed look and a prodding twirl of her finger, she urges James back into the conversation, all _go-on-hop-to-get-in-there_.

(The things he does to please this witch, _really._ )

He tries his best. He jumps in, talking about training, about the match, about Marcie and her smart communication, Dooster and his focused assists. When he starts to babble, Lily’s twirling finger morphs into a slowly lowering flat of fingers ( _cool-it-slow-down-that’s-enough!_ ). He complies readily.

She doesn’t ask questions—this isn’t her interview, and James knows there’s internal press politics to that sort of thing—but she jots down notes from time to time. James wonders if any of this will make it into the furloughed article. He also knows he and Doos spend more time with Lockley than is usual. Most of his teammates have moved on to a second or third interview by now. That’s how these things work. James might be more embarrassed about the fact that they’re very clearly coddling him, but he’s too relieved at the indulgence.

Unfortunately, not everyone is so patient.

About five minutes into the babbling, a tall, dark-haired bloke in bright blue robes saddles up to the front of the barrier. James spots him only a few seconds before—without so much as a _please-if-you-will_ —he roughly bumps Lily aside and leans in over Sam Lockley’s shoulder.

James blinks.

“Fucking _hell_ , Dalton?” Lily snaps.

“Mr. Dooster, Mr. Potter,” the man says grandly. His grin is blinding. “Jack Dalton, _Daily Prophet._ ”

Sam Lockley looks cross. Lily looks livid. But neither does anything more than snap or glare at the man, which tells James he’s likely somehow higher-up than them both.

“Dalton,” Lockley says tightly. “So glad you could join us. Mind if I finish up?”

Dalton ignores him. “Excellent match out there, gentlemen. You both played beautifully…can’t blame either of you for the loss.”

The words are too pointed and strangely delivered. Dooster’s eyes have narrowed. James is instantly on guard.

“Thank you?” Dooster offers.

The reporter’s smile turns sharp. “Twenty-seven goals on your side, but lost on the catch. Got to be frustrating.”

“It’s how the game is played,” James answers carefully. Where’s this going?

Dalton waves a hand. “Of course, of course. Still, enough to make a decent Chaser shout, and you’re both better than that, hm? I think it’s safe to say you’re questioning the choices of your Seeker.”

_What?_

“Choices,” James repeats flatly.

“Choice _of_?” Dalton corrects slyly.

 _Ah._ James sees the target even before Lily’s eyes flash at him in warning.

The fucker was going after Lorri. _Lorri._

It’s so preposterous, so outlandish, James is momentarily dumbfounded. _Lorri?_

Thankfully, Dooster is quick on the recovery. “Not certain what you mean, mate.” His hand immediately moves to James’s arm. James feels the nudge— _let’s go let’s go let’s go_.

Happy to oblige, James twists away accordingly.

But Dalton is relentless.

“Alla Abdel is barely out of the schoolroom,” he blurts loudly as they turn, “yet she outflew and outmatched Lorri Jackson today. Youth has its favors, and in this sport…well, hard to argue Appleby might be reconsidering Jackson’s contract come renewal time. Next year, isn’t it? Tough for female players at the end of their careers. Always cling harder than they ought, eh? I’m sure you gentlemen were equally impressed by Abdel’s performance this morning?”

It’s a clever tactic, worded just so. The options are clear: disparage Abdel, or defend Lorri, with a happy dose of misogyny thrown just there. Any response gives Dalton his quote. Dooster’s hand applies more pressure to James’s arm. Lily’s face has gone completely scarlet. The line is crowded—all the nearby reporters have their eyes and ears trained on this exchange now, just in case. James can see it all unfolding.

And while he knows— _knows—_ the smartest thing to do is follow Dooster’s prompt, find another spot on the line, another _legitimate_ question to answer…something inside James revolts.

Because, honestly? This bloke is scum. He’s _beyond_ scum. He’s the dirt James scuffs off his trainers in the morning, the sludge at the bottom of his tea cup. He’s looking for a juicy morsel of gossip— _Young Stars Lament Teammate Jackson_ , or something equally as rubbish—and James is aghast at the audacity. In a match as well-played as this one had been, the tact is so obvious, so heavy-handed, so _unnecessary,_ James can almost laugh. He should not reward even the _attempt_ with a response.

He shouldn’t…but then he thinks of Lorri.

Stable, steadfast, resilient Lorri, with her calming air, her pregame stretches, her quick fingers, and her small smiles despite—yes, _fine_ —ultimate defeat on the catch today. As if that’s not the game. As if it’s not utterly unavoidable for one Seeker to win and the other to lose. He thinks with fury, _this is the reason I don’t do this_ , and understands the power and limits of _no comment._ He loves _no comment._ He and _no comment_ are the very best of mates.

But now he’s here, and he can’t— _can’t_ —leave it at that. It’s just not in him.

He turns back to Dalton, ignoring Dooster’s fingers clenching, Lily’s fast blink at his movement. James’s fists ball. His voice is low, rough.

“Are you new at this?” he asks Dalton.

The reporter stares. He’s giddy at successfully goading a reply, James knows that, but he’s confused by the one he got. Up for the challenge, he smiles. “New at this?”

“Yes. This. Quidditch.” James waves a hand, takes a step closer. “You must be. Because anyone with even the smallest hint of knowledge about the sport would have watched the match this morning and understood the Seekers at play. Abdel is fast—she’s so bloody fast, I’d hate to face her in a race, that’s for certain. I’m sure she’ll be zooming past us all for years to come. But equally as certain is that nearly every time she dove for the snitch this morning, she was following Lorri Jackson’s lead. Abdel is young. She can’t read a professional pitch yet. One day she will, but the idea that _Lorri Jackson_ was somehow less-than…laughable. Completely _laughable._ She was seeking, while Abdel was chasing. Sometimes you win that way, but you can’t always, and everyone knows it—or, that is, everyone who knows even a whit about Quidditch.” James leaves that point posed for a moment, delighted by the staggered look on Dalton’s face. _Delighted._ “Which brings us back to the original question…Are you new at this? Because the way I see it, you’re either new, you’re inept, or you’re an unmitigated arsehole. So which is it?”

 _So which is it_?

( _Ha._ )

The question hangs in the air. Dalton is silent. The whole bloody line is. No one speaks, no one moves, and with the blood still pumping furiously through his veins, James knows better than to wait around for any of them to regroup. Shooting a quick look at Lily—she is pressing her lips together so firmly, the edges of her mouth have gone white—James smiles pleasantly at Sam Lockley, reaching out to shake the man’s hand.

“Lovely speaking with you, Sam,” he says.

Someone breaks the stupor. James is blinded again by flashes— _clickclickclickclick._ He turns around, prodding a shell-shocked Dooster in the back. _Move, move, move. March, march, march!_

He’s not quick enough.

“I wonder if Greta Moors feels similarly?” Dalton snaps at James’s back, voice filled with taunting fury. “Or Fredrick Fords? I’ll just owl him for comment, shall I?”

_Clickclickclickclick._

_Curse fired, direct hit._

James keeps walking.

“Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter!—”

He is furious. _Furious._

Fuck Dalton. Fuck. _Him_. Greta and Fredrick Fords be damned, too. James regrets none of this. His first real foray into press in ages, and he ends up telling off some pompous tosser in the line? What of it? Bloke is worthless, and James can antagonize any member of the press he’d like. Anyone at _all_ he’d like. He doesn’t regret any of it. He _doesn’t_.

_(It’s fine you’re fine don’t panic don’t panic.)_

Dooster is at his elbow, walking quickly to keep up with James’s brisk strides. As the shouts continue around them, it’s Dooster’s voice that James concentrates on.

“What a cock,” his teammate says, and James can only grunt an agreement. Then Dooster snorts. “New, inept, or an arsehole. Bloody hell, Potter. Had that tucked away in your pocket, did you?”

“Years of pent-up aggression? Some,” James replies, and Dooster throws back his head and laughs. There’s more flashing and clicking.

Fine. They can have that.

 _He_ needs…hell.

James glances back over his shoulder.

She’s still standing beside Sam Lockley. Jack Dalton has gone—James doesn’t see where, but hopefully nowhere James will ever encounter him again, good bloody riddance—but Lily has lingered. Her lips aren’t pressed in contained mirth anymore, instead tweaked slightly upward as she watches him, too. The expression turns shrewder as the seconds pass. Her eyes are quite, quite bright. With a subtle jerk of his head toward the end of the press line, James hopes she understands the desperate attempt to ask, _meet me please please please?_

Lovely, clever witch. She nods immediately, then disappears into the crowd behind her.

All right.

All _right_.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

“You know, I think I’m quite done here,” James tells Dooster, hoping his voice only sounds that tight inside his head. They’re nearly at the end of the line anyway. James has sped through like his trousers are on fire. People have been shouting his name—they all seem to be shouting something—but James hears it like an echo through a tunnel, all hollow and vague. “You all right?”

Dooster nods. “Think I’m quite done, as well. Nothing going to top that, eh?”

_Shit shit shit shit._

James smiles weakly. He’s walking too fast. He knows he is. It’s terribly, terribly obvious. He wants to get out of _click-flash-shout_ range, though, and he’s barely managed to do so before a short obstacle stumbles into his exit path.

“Note for you!” the boy says, thrusting parchment at him.

James takes it numbly.

It’s very clearly ripped off a white pad of paper, which comforts James even before he opens it and sees the familiar handwriting.

**_Bvrg kiosk sect. 4 left pillar. xo_ **

Beverage kiosk. Section Four. Left pillar.

James murmurs something to Dooster— _sorry urgent note thank you thank you thank you_ —then takes off like a pack of dementors are floating at his heels. Section four is close. The beverage kiosk will be crowded with spectators milling about between matches, but maybe Lily’s counting on the busyness to maintain his anonymity. He keeps his head down nonetheless, casting a quick Concealment Charm in hopes that it will deter gazes from lingering his way. He’s never regretted the absence of his Invisibility Cloak so keenly. When he reaches Section Four, he lifts his eyes only high enough to scope out the terrain. The small alcove off the side of the beverage kiosk’s left pillar is surprisingly easy to spot. He weaves his way toward it.

He’s not quite _running_ , but he’s not quite walking, either.

“Shit, shit, _shit_ ,” he’s saying even before he gets there and finds her, tucked away in the spot as promised, _thank Merlin_. “Shit, shit, _shit_.”

“Shit,” she agrees, but she’s laughing. _Lily_. Hullo there. Laughing. “James. Fucking _Christ._ ”

He’s a bloody mess. He fairly falls into her, arms curling around her waist, the momentum pushing her back against the alcove wall. His face drops into the cool, comforting crook of her neck, and he sucks in a ragged breath.

“That was stupid,” he mutters into her skin. “ _Stupid._ I am furious. Fucking _furious._ ”

“You are clearly _not_ the silent and seething sort.”

“Can’t even _believe_ —”

“Un _mitigated._ Five syllables!”

“Shit.”

“It was the most brilliant thing I’ve ever seen.”

“ _Stupid_.”

“Well.” Her fingers sink into his hair, soothing. “Only a bit.”

“A _bit._ ” He chokes on it. Laughs. Is he laughing? “Oh, hell.”

He lifts his head only enough to cover her mouth with his.

She does not shove him off. He is not so awash in his own anguish that he can’t acknowledge she’d have every reason to do so. He’s a waste of a human nowabouts. Instead, her hands slip down, cupping his face, fingers skimming along his jaw. Her mouth matches his in fervor for a few thrilling moments, then pulls back carefully, slowing the onslaught. That’s all right. He doesn’t mind slow. His heart is beating so fast, slow is good. She tastes delicious. Like tea and mint. He’s never come at someone like such a lunatic, and wonders what sort of price he’ll have to pay in the afterlife for these kinds of earthly indulgences. Whatever the cost, fine. He’ll gladly give his bloody soul for a few minutes of this, of her ( _all right okay he’s bloody insane)_.

But she doesn’t seem to mind. That’s the maddest bit of all. She lets him kiss her, kisses him back, and doesn’t seem bothered in the least that she’s latched herself onto the loopiest bean in the Bertie Botts bag.

She’s still chuckling as she pulls away, albeit decidedly more breathlessly.

“All right?” she asks.

James drops his forehead against hers. He wheezes, “Yeah, sure.”

“Liar.”

He shouldn’t laugh. How can he laugh? But between lingering kisses, he does. “Can’t snog the seethe or stupid out, I reckon,” he sighs.

“Ah, well. At least we gave it our best attempt.” Her hands drift down, playing with the lapels of his robes. His heart is doing its best to thump its way out of his chest and he’s certain she must feel it. “This is not a disaster,” she says.

“The snogging?”

“Well, that. Good on us, eh? Meant the rest too, though. It’s not as bad as you think.”

James pulls back, incredulous. “Yes, it is.”

“That—”

“Don’t coddle me.”

“I only meant—”

“Who was the tosser?” James interrupts again. “Dalton.”

Lily’s lips dip grimly. “Arsehole of the highest order, you had the right of it there. Left _Business & Broomsticks _for the _Prophet_ a few months ago. Haven’t the faintest how he survived there, except for favors. He’s connected, if little more than a gossip columnist. But he’s a lead reporter now and he brings in subscriptions with his rot, so we’re all left to suffer.”

“Connected.” James repeats the word dully. A headache is forming. “Which means he might _actually_ be able to owl round Fredrick Fords?”

Lily opens her mouth. Closes it. “I don’t know.”

James sighs again. As if it matters. As if the Puddlemere owner wouldn’t hear of it in any case. “Lovely.”

“You were defending a teammate,” Lily argues loyally. “Against the rubbish innuendos of a sensationalist fuckwit.”

“Don’t reckon Puddlemere will see it that way, do you?”

“Then they’re fuckwits, too.”

“Lily.”

“What? It’s true. You shouldn’t even be—” She stops, shakes her head. Seems to swallow something else down, and doesn’t let it come back up. “It’s true,” she repeats instead, definitively.

 _Not that simple_. It’s not even _remotely_ that simple. James runs a tired hand down his face, striving not to dwell on all the ways he’s drowning in the complications. The expectations. All of it. “I should’ve walked away.”

She can’t much argue with that. “Maybe. Likely. But even if you had done, he still would’ve made it into something. It’s what he does.”

“How?”

She hesitates. Fidgets. “You know.” She waves a hand. “ ‘Potter Avoids Questions About Jackson’s Loss: Silence Speaks Volumes’; or ‘Potter Panders to Press in Attempt to Save Face”; or “Abdel Jealousy Leaves Potter Mutely Fuming”; or—”

“Or?” James chokes out. “ _Or?_  You’ve more?”

Lily shrugs uneasily. “There’s a lot of ways to warp ‘no comment.’”

 _Fucking hell_ , James marvels.  _It took her not even three seconds to come up with those._

His stomach dips sourly.

She notices, of course.

“Don’t.” Her voice is sharp. Her fingers clench. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

The scathing look she shoots him makes it clear she doesn’t appreciate the dissembling. “You know what I do. You’ve always known. I’d never write that sort of rubbish. I’ve more morals than that.”

“Right.”He speaks quickly. Maybe too quickly. “Yes. ’Course. I know.”

“Do you?” She asks it pointedly. Her hand curves around his jaw, tilting his gaze down to square with hers. Her eyes are narrowed, assessing. She doesn’t pull away, but…

But her touch grows lighter, warier. Tense apprehension seems to drip from her—apprehension she has every right to feel, because she’s correct: he’s at odds and ends and she’s somehow found herself at the  _wrong_ end of it all. It’s not worth it to prevaricate. She’s already proven more than once that she’s got his number there. He’s fooling no one. But his mind’s too a-jumble, his equilibrium too off-kilter from the morning—Sirius, and Hoss, and the match, and Dalton, and all the rest of it. He wants to tell about it all, but he’s nearly certain it’ll come out all wrong: “Yes, all right, I thought all those things for a second…but only because I was up half the night with my best mate talking about how you might be using me for a story! And I’m on the brink of fucking up my whole future! Again! And the Dalton thing! And you just then! But  _really_ , I think you’re  _brilliant_ —”

Merlin, he’d want to punch  _himself._ Already does, rather.

He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Gapes some more.

 _Fuck_ , he’s got to say  _something_.

“James.” Her hand drops. Her voice is tight. “Look. This…us…we don’t need to do this—”

“What? No.  _No_.” He frantically grabs for her hands again. “That’s not—that’s  _not_ what I want. That’s not what this is at all. I’m sorry. I’m an arse. I…” He brings her hand back up to his cheek and fairly droops into her cupped palm. “I never meant…I  _know_ you wouldn’t. I shouldn’t have made you feel like I had done. I’m just…I’m cross and panicked, all right? I’m angry with myself for the Dalton shite, and stressed about Puddlemere, and my mates are here, and  _you_ …you panic me most of all.” She blinks at that, and he rushes to explain. “I’m hanging on by a thread, see? The saddest, rattiest, threadbare string. These past few months…completely barking. Such a sodding splinching disaster. And I just…I dunno why you’d even  _consider_ it. This. Me. I’ve been trying to suss it out, trying to understand why in the hell either of us hasn’t run away screaming yet, and I’m at a loss. I’m a terrible bet. A precarious plot twist for you, all around. You see that, don’t you?”

Well, it wasn’t  _quite_ as bad as he thought it might be. He sounds like a raving lunatic, but all the better to make his point, isn’t it? He closes his eyes, taking comfort in the fact that she hasn’t pulled away yet, hasn’t even dropped her hand back down to her side. In fact, she takes his fumbling, bumbling declarations with likely more grace than he deserves.

Eventually, she exhales loudly. “James—”

He opens his eyes. “It’s been six days. Little more than a hundred hours. That’s how long we’ve known each other.”

“You’ve counted?”

“Well. You know.”

She bites her lower lip. “Do you want to run away screaming?”

“Sometimes,” he confesses. “Or at least, I reckon I ought to. Don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” she concedes with a rueful little smile. Her shoulders slump for a second, her chin dropping to her chest. Then she looks back up at him. “No use pretending, is it? Neither of us is stupid enough to ignore the obvious. Yes, my life would be  _infinitely_  easier if you were some dully average, virtually unimportant, struggling barkeep from Nowhere-shire instead of essentially the biggest commodity the sport has on offer right now and the largest contribution to my career and livelihood at the moment. I’d wish you a little less talented, a little less relevant, a little less  _you,_ except then I’d likely find you considerably less appealing and the whole thing would be moot. So you’re right—we’re pretty terrible bets for one another. For all my scruples, I could lose any bit of journalistic integrity I’ve garnered, maybe even get sacked for this. I  _know_  that. That’s…bad. Really, really bad.”

“I don’t want you to get sacked,” James says. “You’re brilliant.”

“You know what people will say, don’t you?” She gives him a pointed look. “That I’m using you. That I’m bartering my favors for stories. That you’re a naïve nodcock for letting it happen. That I’m biding my time until I can con my way into begetting an ill-gained bastard child to set myself up for life. That—”

James chokes out a laugh. “An ill-gained  _what_?”

She waves a hand. “You know what I mean.”

He did, but her examples were nearly as colorful as Sirius’s. “Lily. I know you’re not ‘begetting’ anything.”

“You  _assume_ I’m not begetting,” she corrects. “But either way, it doesn’t mean other people won’t say it. People who don’t matter. People who  _do._ ”

People who do matter already had done…and yet, James was still here. Insanity, suppositions, and all. She was the first one he’d wanted when everything tilted sideways. Was the first one he’d wanted when the sideways had seemed to level out a bit earlier during the match, too. That said something, didn’t it?

He turns his head, dropping a kiss into her cupped palm still resting against his skin. “I don’t care. Do you?”

She lets out an unsteady huff. Her fingers curl. “A little, truthfully.  But…well, here we are.”

“Here we are,” James agrees. He even manages a smile. “So glad we’ve cleared that up.”

“That we’re both utterly thick, self-sabotaging hedonists?”

“Might’ve gone with ‘mutually enamoured’ myself, but all right. Yours works, too.”

“No, I like yours. Straightforward.” She rises back up on her toes and fits her mouth against his properly, a long, lingering kiss. It’s a rush, a comfort. Mutually enamouring.

Nothing about this seems to be straightforward, but James reckons snogging Lily is about as close to it as it gets.

Which makes it a rather large pity—on numerous levels—when she tears her lips away from his.

“Shit,” she says. “I forgot. We have to go.”

“Go where?” James asks. He has no interest in going anywhere.

She straightens his robes, then licks her thumb and smudges it across his lips. “You’ve got lipstick everywhere.” She winces guiltily.

“It’s a new look,” James offers, and attempts to angle for some more by catching her mouth again.

She barely lets him get in a few pecks before she’s squirming away. “Come on, come on. Save it for later.”

 _Later_ gives him hope. She gives his arm a yank, and James lets out a quick hiss.

“ _Ah_ —careful. Shoulder,” he reminds her.

She skitters to a halt. “Oh, hell. I’m sorry. Is it still…you played so flawlessly this morning, I assumed—”

“Flawlessly?” James rears back. He grins. _“Flawlessly_ , was it?”

She rolls her eyes and tugs at his non-injured arm. “Relatively,” she adds. “You know, compared to when you were flinching every time you so much as breathed yesterday.”

“ _Flawlessly,”_ James crows, as if she hasn’t spoken. They leave the alcove together. “Now, _that’s_ a word. Come a long way from ‘decent’ and ‘adequate’, eh?”

“Come a long way from a lot of things,” she mutters. “Humility, among them.”

“ _Flawlessly_ —”

“Oh, good _God_ —”

James’s smug laughter abruptly dies as they swerve past a particularly large crowd of spectators and he spots a specifically smaller crowd of three ambling toward them.

He rounds on Lily, grabbing hold of her shoulders, stopping her mid-blasphemy.

“Er.” He blinks at her. “So, listen.”

Her eyebrows lift.

“I would like you to recall,” he says hastily, quietly, “a few moments ago, when we both decided that we are suitably enamoured of one another and I would like you to _hold on_ to that feeling very tightly. Right now.”

Her head tilts in question

“They mean well,” he adds. Then amends, “ _Some_ of them mean well.”

Which is all he manages to get out before his mates descend.

“Congrats on the  _spectacular_ loss!” Sirius calls, ruffling James’s hair with one hand. The other precariously balances a tall cup. “Rest assured, we cheered very hard for the other team.”

“Cheered ourselves nearly hoarse,” Peter agrees. “‘Rah, rah, Rodger!’”

“You hate Appleby,” James accuses.

Remus grins. “‘Hate’ is relative.”

James rolls his eyes, but sees Remus’s gaze flicker beyond James’s shoulder to where Lily still stands. He swallows down the snitches zooming about in his stomach, the feeling that some might call delighted eagerness or uncontrollable hysteria depending on the day, and clears his throat. “Lads, I’d like—”

Sirius thrusts his cup over James’s shoulder.

“Here,” he grumbles. “Do you have any idea how long that queue was? And you’ve awful penmanship, by the by. Couldn’t tell if that was a four or some kind of ancient hieroglyphic.”

James watches Lily’s smug grin flash as she takes the cup. “Got here, didn’t you? My penmanship is exquisite.” She takes a sip of the drink, and nods in satisfaction. “Excellent. Only 4,999 to go.”

“Excuse me? I believe you mean 4,99 _8_.” Sirius crosses his arms. “I brought you that butterbeer during the match.”

“That was an  _apology_ butterbeer. And far before terms were settled. Doesn’t count.”

“Doesn’t count? Doesn’t  _count_?” Sirius whirls on the other two. “Does it count?”

“Of course not,” Remus says.

“Definitely doesn’t count,” Peter agrees.

“What? That’s— _collusion_!” Sirius rails. “Where is your loyalty?”

James can only blink, utterly bewildered, as the four begin to argue semantics of drinks, of terms, of timing and apologies, and most certainly of  _collusion_ (emphasis required).

James watches it all for several long moments.

 _What. Is. Happening?_ (Emphasis.  _Required_.)

“What is—” He has to raise his voice to be heard. “ _Oy!_  What—what is this?”

“ _Collusion_ ,” Sirius insists again with a decidedly outraged look. “Haven’t you been listening?”

James turns on Lily, because she seems the likeliest to be depended upon for reason. “These are my mates,” he tells her.

“I know.” Her smile is secretive, self-satisfied. “We’ve met.”

“Yes,  _clearly_ ,” James says. “More interested in the  _how_ and the  _when_ , thanks.”

“Utter coincidence,” Sirius declares, at nearly the same time Lily baldly states, “I was shanghaied.”

Shanghaied.

_Shanghaied._

“What?” James is not quite shouting, but not quite  _not_. “ _What?”_

“It wasn’t as bad as that,” Peter is quick to insist.

“It was as bad as that,” Remus concedes guiltily.

“There was,” Lily says, “this  _dog_.”

James shoots a look at Sirius, who is now studiously examining the ceiling. “A dog _._ ”

“Yes, a  _dog_. On the stadium grounds. Very strange.” Lily talks animatedly with her hands. “So he comes up to me, then  _dashes_ away, and I’m following this dog round this remote corner, see? Because,  _why_? And then I lose him—hey, where’d the dog  _go_ anyway? Where does one even  _get_ a dog around here? Or through security? It’s all…well, never mind, anyway, then I am  _surrounded_ by these three, and I kicked poor Peter in the shin—”

“Quite all right!” Peter rushes out, hands held high. “We did sort of skulk up on you.”

“Right—”

“Skulk.” James can barely manage the word. The image of all this so clearly unfolds in his head—every disastrous second of it—it’s really quite a wonder he can even speak at all. ”You  _skulked_ up on her.”

“I actually recognised Remus quickly enough,” Lily jumps in. “We were in Defense Club together at Hogwarts.”

“Defense Club.”

“Yes. Before I left. He was very good with Shield Charms. But see, I didn’t catch sight of him before I’d already kicked Peter—”

“—no harm done!—”

“—and Fuck Off there was looming a  _bit_ murderously, so I cannot be blamed—”

“It wasn’t  _murderous_ ,” Sirius says. “That’s just my face.”

“—but it was sorted pretty quickly, all in all,” Lily finishes. And grins.

They are all grinning, in fact. Looking at him all innocently, all very ha-ha-isn’t-this- _humorous_ -so-many-chuckles-no-harm-no-foul-let’s-move-on-shall-we? Like they haven’t…like they  _haven’t_ …

James attempts to regulate his breathing—attempts to regulate his outrage, and the need to howl, and wail, and maybe send prayers up to the heavens—and struggles to reach the  _ha-ha_  place of let’s-move-on.

But he’ll have to be forgiven for  _not quite getting there just yet_.

He turns slowly toward his mates.

“All I asked,” he manages shortly, his voice chillingly measured and low, “is for you lot  _not_ to scare her off. That’s it. Be decent. Normal. At the  _barest level,_  don’t give her  _more_  reason to ditch me arse-over-head on the side of the pitchthan I already have done all on my own. And yet that  _somehow_ , in your  _feeble_ minds, leaves  _amble_ room for  _shanghaiing her,_ in  _a dark corner_ , looming  _murderously_ , with a  _dog_ , to—to—”

“It wasn’t a  _dark_ corner,” Peter mutters. “There was plenty of light.”

James cannot even muster a response for that. Instead, he whirls on Sirius. “You!” He jabs a furious finger. “This was  _you._ ” Now Remus: “And  _you_  let him!”

Remus shrugs helplessly as Sirius scoffs, “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. You were clearly a biased party, and we just wanted to  _chat_ with her, Prongs.”

“ _Chat_ with her?” James shouts. “And you couldn’t  _chat_ with her later, at a perfectly normal location I’d already set up? Without the  _skulking_ and the bloody  _dog_ —”

“You are  _very_ hung up on this dog,” Lily says.

“I’m going to kill all of you,” James declares, glaring at the traitors he’d previously had the  _stupidity_ to consider  _family_. “ _Kill_ you.”

“See?  _That’s_ murderous,” Sirius mutters to Lily.

James fairly lunges at him and Lily wraps an arm around his waist as Sirius dodges away with a cackle.

“James! Honestly.” Her arm squeezes him. “It’s fine.  _Fine_.”

“It’s  _not_ fine!”

“It is,” she insists again, hand stroking and patting his side now. Like he’s a skittish lamb in need of coddling. “We had a good chat, that’s all.”

“About what?”

She presses her lips together, clearly still finding this humourous. “Intentions,” she says.

He shoots another deadly look at his mates.

“It’s all sorted now,” Lily continues. “After a bit of back and forth, we’ve all settled that I am in fact  _not_ after a promotion, or your fame, or your money, or—what was it, Sirius? The ‘begetting of an ill-gained bastard child to set myself up for life’?”

James’s eyes fly to Lily’s.

She winks.

 _Fucking hell._ The colorful example wasn’t  _like_ Sirius’s. It  _was_ Sirius’s.

“Run screaming,” James advises her quietly. “Truly. Go on. Save yourself.”

“For the record,” the traitorous bastard James formerly called brother interjects, “I stated very clearly I’d still serve as godfather for any fruit of your loins, ill-gained or otherwise.”

“Bit difficult to do when you’ll be  _three leagues beneath the ground_ ,” James retorts.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Really, she took this all  _loads_ better than you’ve done.”

“To be fair,” Lily adds, “I  _was_ bribed.”

James eyes her cup. Now it’s all starting to click together. ”With 5,000 beverages? You settled too low.”

She shakes her head. “Oh, no. That was a bet. Much later.”

“What, then?”

She takes a long sip of her drink, then innocently offers, “Pornographic banners, actually.”

_Pornographic banners._

James chokes. He sputters. His head whips around to glare accusingly at Peter, who only shrugs helplessly. “What? Apparently she’s hot for Pot. Who could’ve known?”

James considers homicide. He considers suicide. He considers several other -cides, or possibly something that includes time travel, or sudden short-term amnesia, or even hypnotism, but in the end he merely settles on not quite meeting her eyes. “Er.” He coughs. “Those are…erm, fake.”

Except it comes out as “…fake?” rather more than “ _fake._ ”

He  _really_  wishes he could recall if they were fake.

Lily smiles like the cat that’s got the cream, seemingly equally as unconvinced by this claim. “Mm-hm.”

“It was cold in the room,” is what Sirius offers.

“We were all young and impetuous once,” is Remus’s input.

“I’ve got at least a dozen more,” Peter confides, and he grins like he means it.

 _Shite, he probably does mean it_.

And then they are all speaking at once, which is sort of a relief and sort of isn’t, because Lily is looking intrigued and Peter is looking smug and Sirius is having  _far_ too much fun for someone who James only  _minimally_ has determined he no longer has to throttle  _immediately_ , and Remus is cocking his brows at James in that way that very clearly states,  _Yes, well, sorry, but it’s all wrapped up quite nicely, hm?_

If a witch can somehow overlook being shanghaied by one’s mates, and was  _still_ willing to stand here a few hours later, bartering for pornographic banners like a wily grandmum taking on the grocer for her weekly vittles…

Well, that’s something, isn’t it?

Very, very much something.

The snitches inside James’s stomach are dancing. They are dancing in giddy, frantic,  _uncontrollable_ delight and he wants to hug someone and hit someone and really, the fraying string can  _keep_  fraying so long as he can hold this moment just here, right now, for quite a long time.

 _Click. Flash._ In his brain. The good kind of _click flash._

He is not the one who interrupts it. He has in fact joined in, unable to keep quiet after hearing Peter’s absurd claim that there is in fact a banner featuring a naked James lounging beside a sleeping lynx at the London Magical Menagerie ( _which had to be impossible…right?)_ , when one of the ever-present exhibition errand lads squirms between the lot of them, thrusts a folded note at Lily, and says, “Here!”

She takes it absently, flipping it open as she’s still arguing, “…I don’t care how much money you’ve donated. They don’t let naked wizards stroll into the lynx cages at the London Magical Menagerie for drunken photoshoots.”

“No one said we  _asked_ ,” Sirius says.

“That is  _so_ —” Lily jerks. She’d already been half ready to toss her arms in outrage, but her body instead stiffens as her eyes fixate on the note. Her mouth closes. She looks…perturbed?

“What is it?” James asks.

Instead of answering, she whips around and raises two fingers to her mouth. She lets loose a shrill whistle, and shouts out a pointed, “ _Oy_!” to the errand lad who was already starting to scurry away through the crowds.

The boy turns back to her, exasperated.

Lily lifts the note. “This came from Hopper?”

The boy nods impatiently.

Lily closes the note and turns back around, the boy running off again behind them. She’s frowning, staring off at some dead space to their right. She appears to be more confused than anything else, but it’s certainly a far cry from her laughing teasing of moments before. When he touches her arm, she jumps, her gaze jerking up.

“All right?” he asks again.

“It’s…yes. Yes, fine.” She shakes her head, seems to attempt to shake off the moment, then quirks her lips gamely. “Sorry. Work. You know.”

“You’re not…in trouble?” he asks it softly, pointedly. “Not…you know, all this…?”

“What?” She blinks. “Oh. You and…? No. No, it’s fine. We’re fine. I just…” Her lips press together. She  _is_ watching him rather stringently, but James can’t discern whether that’s because she’s contemplating  _him_ specifically, or he’s simply an obstacle in the way of her distracted stare. He can practically see her mind whirling at lightning speed.

She starts again, and lets off an unsteady laugh. “Sorry, sorry.” She waves her hand. The closed note flutters between her fingers. “Sorry,” she tells his mates, too. She lifts the note. “I’ve got to take care of this. Work.”

“Sure,” Remus says, but his brow is a bit furrowed now, too.

“If you’d like to begin an exposé on nude Quidditch banners,” Peter states, “I am a  _very_ reliable source.”

Lily smiles more easily. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She turns back to James. “I’ll…I have to…but I’ll see you…?”

“Later?” James fills in. She nods, but  _certainly_ she’s acting strangely, isn’t she? Could it be something about Dalton? Lily had been witness to the whole thing. Maybe someone at the  _Prophet_  had questions. Could she get in trouble for _that_ , if not their relationship (if he could indeed call it a relationship)? But then James feels a bit conceited for thinking everything was somehow about him. Likely, it wasn’t. Likely everything was fine. The news never stopped, did it? And this was her job. “Still reckon we ought to tour The Cornish Pixie with the lads? And you’ve 4,999 free drinks still coming, yeah?”

“4,99 _8_ ,” Sirius corrects. Then, again, “ _Collusion._ ”

They all, wisely, ignore him.

“Eight? Meet you there?” James asks Lily.

She nods. “Yes. That’s good.”

She says her goodbyes quickly—still rather jittery, half-distracted, but genuine enough despite the speed of the whole process. Before she takes off, she grabs James’s hand and squeezes it. He wishes she’d told him what was in the note and why it had thrown her, what’s zooming through that clever head of hers, but it seems not entirely his place. Likely, if they actually make a go of this, there will be numerous notes and tips and meetings where she won’t be able to tell him a thing. It might take a bit getting used to, but that doesn’t mean James can’t handle it. All of this was still incredibly new. Allowances had to be made for both of them to match their strides.

As she disappears into the milling crowds, James reckons it’s enough for now.

Besides…he has plenty to focus his attention on at present.

“So.” He turns back to his mates, claps his hands together. “Do I murder you lot now, or do we tuck in to some lunch first?”


	8. Day Six (End)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the wise words of James Potter: "Day Six has proven to be one of those endless endeavours that seems to be made up of two thousand hours rather than twenty-four..." But the opus chapter has finally come to an end. HUZZAH. I apologize profusely for how long this has taken, as well as...um, the rest of it.
> 
> You know you love me and my dramatic angst. ;)

**\+ + +**

**DAY SIX (End)**

The tentative knock sounds against James’s hotel room door at approximately 6:58 p.m.

_Rap. Rap. Rap._

From inside the tiny hotel loo, James pauses, fingers stalling halfway down the placard of shirt buttons he’d been in the midst of fastening. His hair still hangs straggly and wet from his shower, he’s got only one sock on, is uncertain of the location of the other, and in the small rectangular mirror above the quaint loo sink, he watches his features curl into resigned exasperation.

It’s Hoff again.

Instinctively, without question, James is  _certain_ it’s Hoff again.

For a brief (disgraceful) moment, James contemplates escaping through the nearby window—lone bare foot dangling out the opening, arse wriggling as he scurries over the side and jumps down into the prickly bushes below. It’d be worth it, wouldn’t it? The shame and the scratches and the soggy toes? Hoff would forgive him. Eventually. The bothersome blighter was already regretful and chagrined about the interruption. James knows that. The agent’s bashful, stagnant knock said it all.

_Rap._ Terribly sorry to disturb.

_Rap._ Couldn’t be prevented.

_Rap._ Profuse apologies.

But bloody well returned he’ll be all the same, and James knows any acrobatics out the nearest narrow building exit are sadly not the answer. But possibilities for what may await on the other side of the door seem bleak at best. What would it be? Another blistering lecture? More owls to reply “no comment” to? This time of evening, James’s worst worry—word from Puddlemere—seemed highly unlikely. The knock had been too tentative to be good news, and Hoff had an almost comfortingly set routine when dolling out bad news: early morning tea and pastry with a useful helping of overblown flattery and alternative plans. None of that fit here. It couldn’t be Puddlemere. But they’d been at the rest of it all sodding afternoon, from near the second James had returned from lunch with the lads to find his beleaguered agent haunting the corridor outside of his hotel room like an ominous poltergeist. And while James is not so arrogant as to refute that the necessity of such things is  _entirely_ his fault…well, he’s still allowed to gripe and frown about it a bit now, isn’t he?

“This is why you need a publicist,” a battered Hoff had griped himself earlier, giving James a  _stare_  (harangued; superior; undoubtedly tallying up all the surplus billable hours he could squeeze from this with vengeful satisfaction). “Rogue press lines. Telling off reporters. I’ve  _told_ you.”

“This was all a one-off,” James had argued, dashing another  _no comment_ to some reporter from a publication called  _Quaffle Questions_  who wanted to know if James and Lorri Jackson were having a scorching hot affair (Lorri is happily married, and old enough to be his mother besides, but it’s obviously the logical conclusion. Ace reporting, _QQ._ ). “I don’t do press. Why would I need a publicist when I do no publicity?”

Hoff’s response—aptly—had been a pointed look at the chaos around them.

Which, James concedes, is fair.

Bothersome, but fair.

Fairer still, Hoff had really been more than generous regarding the Dalton situation as a whole. Besides even the utter catastrophe of insulting tosser lead reporters on the press line in the first place, it had been truly beyond the pale for James not to have at least dashed off a warning note to Hoff after things had gone so south. As effectively James’s only representation, Hoff was instantly besieged with questions, questions, _questions,_ and James had unkindly left him blinking owlishly with his trousers round his ankles. If the agent hadn’t been so used to answering “no comment” to anything related to James’s media presence, he may very well have refuted the admittedly entirely out-of-character exchange and caused all kinds of problems. It’s why James had contritely borne through a good thirty-minute castigation about what one does and does not do in a publicity nightmare of one’s own making. He really deserved no less.

They’d done their mightiest, Hoff and James, to manage the deluge of…well, uncertain if it could be termed _backlash_ quite yet, but the possibility lingered. These kinds of media storms changed tides mighty quickly, on generally unpredictable whims, often swayed or squashed by other tempests brewing on the shores. Hoff seemed confident that they could brazen this out with their _no comments_ , and James sure as hell hoped that was true. He _did_ feel like an arse for _being_ an arse _to_ the arse…but one could hardly claim he wasn’t justified in the reaction. Or, one _could_ , but James still had cause to hope that his otherwise dependable reputation as a reluctant-but-charming sport darling earned him some lenience here. But there was almost no telling until tomorrow morning’s papers hit stands. Nothing seemed to have reached the wireless stations yet, and no one published in the evenings. It would be jury by morning headline.

Fredrick Fords—Puddlemere owner, Fate Decider—definitely read morning headlines.

James knows this, but is striving to ignore it.

Honestly, he’s quite sick of worrying over things he can’t change.

Personal progress: check.

And in the meantime…well, he’s still got an hour before he has to meet Lily and the lads at the Cornish Pixie. James reckons he owes Hoff better now than an untimely window exit.

Though he really ought to find that other sock.

“Coming!” he calls, popping through a few more shirt buttons, peeking under chairs and flipping over the bed coverlet as he walks. Perhaps he’d accidentally tossed the sock in with the laundry he’d just sent out. Wouldn’t _that_ be just his luck? But more likely it had simply been sucked into the mysterious vortex that is a hotel room, like the hundreds and thousands of lone socks before it. Elusively and inexplicably gone forever.

Admitting defeat for the moment (would a single-socked James earn a more sympathetic scolding?), James reaches the door and swings it open.

…to find Lily Evans, Junior Quidditch Correspondent, standing on the other side.

James blinks.

_Oh._

(Shit. Now he  _really_ wishes he had that sock.)

“Lily.” He grins widely—can’t help it. He’s surprised, but delighted. He’s also vaguely tempted to tuck his bare foot out of sight behind the door, but quickly discerns he’ll only look like a crackpot. Very attractive, that. “You’re…here.”

“Hi,” she says quietly, almost hesitantly. She’s fidgeting some, but thankfully does not drop her ricocheting green gaze down to his toes. Honestly, she’s far too busy apologising. “Sorry, I should have—you’d told me your room before, so I…but this is so…I’ve just shown up—”

“Do you think I mind?” James laughs incredulously, shaking his head in amusement. “Fifteen minutes earlier and you would’ve caught me in the shower, but all’s well that ends and all that. Your turn anyway, isn’t it? Unexpected drop-ins. Retribution, fair play, you know.”

“Right.” It earns him a quivery sort of smile. “All that.”

But she doesn’t move forward. Doesn’t say anything further, either. She doesn’t do much of anything, in fact, except continue to squirm and dither on the other side of the doorway.

Which is…strange.

James’s head tilts, watching her carefully. Her uncharacteristic reticence is…disquieting, to say the least. The idea that she’s actually _that_ anxious over showing up on his doorstep seems, frankly, patently absurd. Beyond even that he’s done it to her (loopy! injured! stalking!), just the sight of her fills James with a haplessly giddy, floaty fierce feeling inside of his chest—and he reckons she knows it. _Ought_ to, in any case. He’s not exactly been subtle, has he? Accosting her in alcoves and on therapy tables and whatnot? Day Six has proven to be one of those endless endeavours that seems to be made up of two thousand hours rather than twenty-four, but Lily Evans has been a steadying force through it all. James is forever grateful, humbled, and—mostly—baffled by that. Despite their earlier declarations of mutual admiration, a witch can only be expected to endure so much.

Inadvertent  _shanghaiing_ , James admits, is not exactly what one can call traditional courtship.

_Not_ , James cannot state more firmly, that he had been any kind of willing participant in _that_ plot. And he certainly hadn’t been quick to let the sleeping dog lie, either. His mates had graciously allowed him all of twelve minutes to eviscerate them at lunch for their ambushing tactics, though James isn’t certain how many of his scathing rebukes had actually registered. Remus had seemed properly apologetic from the start, Peter was far more interested in his meal than in James’s rants, and Sirius’s mulish expression had let James know his mate had gone full Machiavelli: the end by far justified the means.

 “You could’ve ruined it,” James had argued, determined to get through at least that much. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are that she chose to find it more amusing than utterly disastrous? She ought’ve grabbed security and had the three of you thrown out on your arses. Then thrown _me_ out on my arse.”

“We know,” Remus said contritely.

“These crisps are cracking,” Peter put in.

“If she wasn’t willing to get prodded a bit by the most important people in your life,” Sirius maintained loftily, “then she doesn’t deserve to be part of it.”

“That isn’t even remotely true!” James shouted. “Or up to you!”

He received only a dismissive snort at that.

But later, when his twelve minutes had expired, and Peter had waxed lyrical about the crisps to their full extent before popping into the loo, and Remus had graciously offered to pay the tab in fair restitution, James was left alone at the table with Sirius.

James knew he would likely never get the genuine repentance he was looking for—not from Sirius, the undeniable ringleader here, who was too stubborn and too validated by the lack of punishable fallout to warrant regret. James hadn’t been mates with him this long without accepting that telltale Sirius obstinacy. And much as it killed him to admit, these rotters _were_ top of the list in his life. In their horribly misguided way, they were only looking out for him. What they thought mattered. Especially this particular prat.

“If you won’t admit you were wrong,” James eventually ventured in resignation, “then at least concede that I was right. About Lily. You like her, don’t you?”

An exasperated look crossed over Sirius’s face, rankled and put-upon. He indulged in a very long sip of his beer, cupping the tankard with casual ease, then lowered it back down to the table with unhurried patience. He seemed to be considering his words, or at the very least considering how to annoy James to the utmost degree.

“Look, Prongs,” he finally said, with a decidedly pompous air. “The way I see it, you’ve got one of two schemes running here—either that witch is the best damn actress I’ve ever met, in which case she deserves credit for the pure, masterful ingenuity of it… _or_ —” he quickly added, at James’s noise of protest, “you’ve somehow managed to find yourself a bird who is cleverer, cooler, and prettier than you, and now you’ve got to find a way to keep her around despite the fact that you’re a right useless wanker.” Sirius lifted his tankard again, clacked it against James’s with a smirk. “Either way—best of luck with that, git.”

It is, James acknowledges, a rather fitting summary of his current situation.

The latter portion, of course. Cleverer, cooler, and prettier sounds about right.

And he’s just not certain how Lily can’t possibly _know_ that.

But eyeing her on the other side of the doorway now…James suddenly begins to doubt.

It seems useless to try claiming that everything is actually fine. She is visibly ill at ease, maybe even a bit pale. She hasn’t changed from the black dress she was wearing this afternoon, and her hair has started to fall out of the graceful-looking knot she’d had it tied back into earlier. His worse insecurities want to worry that she’s shown up here to call the whole thing off. The two of them. This, together. His mates are insane. James, himself, a bloody mess. She’s finally come to her senses, realised how rubbish a deal she was getting, how much better she could do, with significantly less hassle. It’s not out of the realm of possibility…but logic argues they’d settled that earlier. James had spewed all his nonsense on her in the alcove, and she’d taken the lot in stride. She’s not the sort to go back on that now. With only…oh, a hundred and twenty hours under their belts, he somehow still knows that for certain.

Except…the last time he’d seen her, she wasn’t exactly at ease either, was she?

The note.

The jittery, half-distracted parting.

It’s all a bit familiar, actually.

The floaty, fierce feeling inside his chest tightens.

Nearly at the same time, they speak.

“Do you want—?”

“Can I—?”

James cracks a smile at the word-tangle, but she doesn’t. Counting it as more evidence, he immediately steps back on his bare foot, swinging the door open wider.

“ ’Course.” He extends a hand. “Come in.”

She gives a little nod, steps into the room without quite meeting his eyes.

James closes the door uneasily behind her.

He’s suddenly very conscious of the fact that the room is sort of in shambles. James isn’t exactly neat in the first place, and his hectic afternoon plus the absent search for the missing sock have not helped matters. There are clothes and equipment on the floor. Remnants from damage control with Hoff—letters and parchment and quills—fill most of the flat surfaces. There’s still a steamy dampness in the air from his shower, and his bed looks like someone had a wrestling match upon it. And not in a particularly sexy way. Two dragons fornicating, at best.

For lack of anything else to do, he attempts to straighten up a bit.

“Sorry about the…I’m not usually this much of a slob,” he says, grabbing things at whim, kicking others under any nearby furniture. “Were we not meeting at the bar? Not that I mind the early drop-in, of course. As I’ve said. Far from it, in fact. But…well, would’ve made things a bit more presentable, had I known. Myself included. Would’ve found my other sock, at the very least. Elusive little bugger.”

“This one?” Lily offers in a small voice, and James turns to find her plucking— _ah_. The sock, buried beneath some papers on the side table. How the hell did it get there?

James musters a grin, takes it from her.

“Well done,” he praises. “Reckon I’ll keep you around.”

It’s a mindless quip—innocent; harmless; never mind that he teases and jokes when he’s nervous, and she’s making him quite nervous right now—but it seems to hit her like a gruesome insult. She very nearly flinches with it.

Well. That settles that, then.

Something is wrong.

Something is definitely, indisputably, wrong.

“Lily.” He takes a step closer to her, sees no reason to skirt around it. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

“I—” Her face pinches. Wilts. “James…”

She doesn’t manage anything more, and James’s mind races with the possibilities to fill the trailing ellipses. Truthfully, there are a thousand things that could be wrong. A hundred thousand things. He’s almost afraid to speculate. His barmy brain will likely go straight to the worst, and that won’t serve either of them. But she can’t seem to get the words out, and the uncertainty is unbearable.

He can’t just stand here in the silence. It’s simply not in him.

“Has someone found out? About us?” It’s his best guess. Merlin, if she’s gotten in trouble for it—sacked, even—he’ll feel awful. _Beyond_ awful. He prays that’s not it. “Or…is this about Dalton? Has that all gone to shit? Can’t say I’m surprised, but…no? Are you in trouble at the paper, then? Something about the article?” More silence. James is beginning to grow frustrated. “Lily…give me something, will you? Whatever it is—”

“No. Please. It’s none of—” She stops again, sucks in a short breath. She shakes her head jerkily. “It’s none of that.”

“Then what?”

“I…it’s—”

“It’s…?”

“James…”

“ _What_ —”

“I fucked up,” she finally—incomprehensibly—says. Her hands immediately cover her face. Her shoulders slump. “James, I’m so… _God_. I—”

_Fucked up?_

James blinks, stares at her. She’s said it so forlornly, so miserably, but he doesn’t know what it means. What any of it means. “What?”

“I…” The hands run down her face. He’s never seen her this distraught. One hand stops tight and clenched against her heaving abdomen. The rest of her is shaking like a leaf in the wind. “I’m so…I’m _so_ sorry. I’ve been running ragged all afternoon, trying…trying…but it’s my fault. I think it’s my fault. I fucked up. I’m so—so—”

“Lily.” She’s not making any sense, but he can’t just stand there while she’s collapsing in on herself. He grabs hold of her arms, feels her trembling beneath his fingers. She halfheartedly attempts to shake him off, protests despondently, but he won’t let her. He guides her toward the nearby armchair instead, shoving a pile of correspondence to the floor before forcing her to perch on the plush cushion. He kneels down with her. He’s still holding the stupid sock. He drops it to the ground. “Lily, look at me. Breathe. We’ll sort it, whatever it is. What do you think is your fault?”

Her bright gaze skips over his face, like she’s trying to crack some code, maybe trying to memorize it. It’s unnerving, to say the least. He brushes a hand over her hair as her mouth opens and closes without result. In the end, she simply reaches into the pocket of her dress and pulls out a folded piece of parchment. She holds it out to him silently.

He recognises it immediately.

It’s the note. The one from earlier.

James drops his hand from her hair to take it. Slowly, eyeing her carefully, he flips it open to read.

 

> **Potter to Falmouth???**
> 
> **Moors meet w/ FF set tomorrow AM. Puddlemere won’t confirm.**
> 
> **Fal says you—what do you know?? To press AM.**

 

James reads it once. Twice. It blurs a bit in front of his eyes.

_Potter to Falmouth._

_Moors meet w/ FF set tomorrow AM._

_Fal says you._

It’s mostly Mermish to him. What’s not Mermish is…

_No._

No, no, no, _no_.

“‘Potter to Falmouth’?” It’s his name. A team. He can process that much at least. James looks up at her, stares like he’s searching for answers in her dusting of freckles. His mouth is dry. Maybe he’s shaking, too. “I’m not going to Falmouth. I’ve never even spoken to Falmouth. There’s no _spot_ with Falmouth.”

“Marcie York,” Lily rasps quietly, and then swallows hard. “She’s signed with the Harpies.”

“No.” James’s brain is skittering at the edge of the cliff. Trainers scrambling for purchase. Dirt clumps sputtering into the air. Earth shifting beneath him. “That’s…that’s rumour. She’s holding out for a higher renewal contract. Everyone’s been talking about it.”

Lily shakes her head. “It’s not rumour. She signed two days ago.”

That can’t be right. It doesn’t make any…but then James recalls Marcie strolling into the locker room late on Day Four. Recalls her looking mighty self-satisfied, though everyone had assumed that meant she’d successfully managed to leverage herself a pay raise, or at the very least a higher re-sign bonus. She hadn’t confirmed…but then, she wouldn’t.

Her leaving will be a bruising Bludger to the Falcons’ offense. Theirs is a three-player production, and losing one arm of the Chasing trio is not going to be easy to replace. The front office must be in a blind panic. As far as James knows, no one actually imagined Marcie would leave.

But that has fuck-all to do with him…hasn’t it?

“I don’t understand.” He needs to be on his feet. Needs to move. He does so, skittishly, restlessly. Now he’s _definitely_ starting to shake. “Even if she has done…what’s that do to…why…”

Lily stands, too. Slowly, with weighted care, she asks, “Do you remember my mate? The one who made the poultice for your shoulder?”

_I have a mate who’s a trainer with Falmouth._

_I fucked up._

_Fal says you._

James’s heart begins to pound. “Lily…”

“I’m so…I _never_ meant _—_ ” She steps toward him, face twisting with torment. “She’s my friend. We were just talking. She told me about Marcie. She knew I was doing the article on you. Your name had come up during discussions in the office, but everyone assumed it was a dead end. That you were set on Puddlemere. She only asked…she only asked what I _thought_. If there was any chance you might ever consider…if it was even worth reaching out. And I…I said…”

She trails off, but James hardly needs her to finish. It is now, with sad clarity, terribly obvious what she must have said. He sinks down upon the bed behind him, his entire body rioting. His elbows press hard into his thighs. He drops his head into his hands.

Shit, shit, _shit._

“Fucking… _Lily_ …”

“I only told her to make the offer!” Lily defends desperately, and James can hear the anguish in her voice, the regret weeping from it, everything. But he can’t process it. Can’t process any of it. “I swear, that’s _all_ I said! I didn’t tell her you’d accept. I didn’t even tell her you were interested! I just said she should tell the team to extend the branch. To—to just— _try_ —”

“ _Why?”_ James shouts, because now he’s angry. Actually, properly _angry_. His hands tremble. His voice rattles. It’s trampling through him like a hippogriff stampede and he can’t stop it. “Why the hell would you tell them that? You _know_ what I want. Puddlemere. Have we not spent the past fucking six days talking about how much I want Puddlemere?”

“I know. We have. I just—”

“Just what? Thought you knew better? Thought you’d put yourself in the bloody middle?”

“No!” She’s frantically shaking her head. “That’s not…I had no idea it would go this far! I have no bloody idea how Puddlemere even found out. Or that they’d somehow take it as a strange point of betrayal that you’d even consider other offers. How it somehow got so misconstrued…it just…spiraled…I don’t know—”

“You work in this sport,” James states coldly. “You _know_ how it works. It always gets out. Rumour is all that’s needed. You _know_ the way these things get twisted. You’re hardly fucking new to this, Lily!”

“I know. I _know._ ” She doesn’t even try to argue it. She bites her lip, squeezes her eyes shut. “I’m so… James, I’m _so_ sorry. I never…”

“So that’s it, then?” He feels a burning in his stomach. In his throat. Merlin love him, it could be his eyes. Maybe he’s about to sob like a toddler, right here and now, one-socked useless bastard that he is. Wouldn’t that just be the prime topping on this shit tower of a mess? He glances down at the note again. The words are looking wobbly. “‘ _Moors meet w/ FF set tomorrow AM’_? So that’s that? Puddlemere’s going with Greta Moors?”

He waits for the nod. Knows it’s coming. _Expects_ it to be coming. He doesn’t know who wrote the note—someone called Hopper, he recalls. Bloody stupid name—but he’s clearly a source. A reliable source. Lily Evans, Junior Quidditch Correspondent Extraordinaire, would not have anything less than an utterly reliable source.

Which meant…

_Fuck_.

She’s too kind to make him wait. The answer is already there, in plain black and white, for both of them to see. And yet, despite all that…when he gets it—the nod—broken and slow, with Lily looking as if she might want to have a bit of a cry too…it hits James like a sudden, swift punch to the gut.

Right.

That’s it, then.

It’s over.

_Over._

Again.

“Eleven A.M.,” Lily whispers, her voice barely above hearing. “She’s scheduled to meet with them while you have your match tomorrow. And they’re…they’re apparently calling you in at three. If you…if you haven’t heard yet.”

James lets out a choked, bitter laugh.

If he hasn’t _heard_ yet. Ha. Right. Hasn’t _heard._ Quite obviously, he hasn’t _heard_.

A sudden, vicious daydream pops into his cloudy head—what his reaction might have been if he’d heard Puddlemere wanted to meet with him tomorrow without knowing all the rest. Without knowing they were meeting with Greta first. It’s painful even to contemplate, because James imagines nothing less than blind exuberance. He imagines getting the call from Hoff, running around this messy hotel room, grinning and dancing and pumping his fists like a damn lunatic. He imagines going to meet Lily and the lads at the Cornish Pixie afterward. Greeting Lily with a huge, overenthusiastic kiss. Buying old Hurley an extra three rounds on him. The whole dive, round after round on him. Getting rip and roaring drunk with his mates and his girl, because what did it matter if he played like a damn rubbish heap the next day? He was being signed by Puddlemere. Finally. Two years later. _Finally._

He’s such a ponce.

Such a complete and utter daydreaming _ponce._

“Well, that’s…that’s just brilliant,” he manages, biting off the words. “Perfect. Bloody perfect.”

She makes a sound of protest, but James can’t look at her. It will hurt to look at her. Mostly because part of him still wants to curl at her feet and wail out his anguish while she somehow attempts to make it better.

And isn’t that just bloody perfect, too?

“James…”

“No. This is my fault. I lost sight of it. Let myself get distracted. This is my fault.”

“It is _not_ —”

He glances up at her. Immediately regrets it. “You’re pleased though, right?”

“I’m—what?” Green eyes blink at him, perturbed. “Of _course_ I’m not—what is that supposed to mean?”

“You never thought I should be after Puddlemere.” _Shut up, she already feels terribly enough. This isn’t helping. You’re being an arse._ “You’ve thought it was the wrong choice from the start. Haven’t bothered to hide it all that well, honestly. That’s why you told your mate to let Falmouth offer in the first place, isn’t it? You _wanted_ me to consider it.”

Lily opens her mouth. Closes it.

“That’s not…” She sucks in a harsh breath. “This isn’t what I wanted.”

“No?” James scoffs. He can’t stop it. “Please.”

“No matter what I think of Puddlemere, of any of it, _this_ ”—Lily gestures around them—“is _never_ what I wanted. James. You can’t possibly think—”

“Can’t I?”

It’s a barbed taunt. A jagged one. He’s wounded her with it, as he’d meant to. She flinches, her pretty face going blank. “James…”

She needs to stop saying his name. Needs to stop saying anything at all. He stands, compelled to move, to pace. He wants to get away from this. From her. He needs to think. He can’t think when she’s near. That might have been the problem all along. And now he needs to figure out what the _fuck_ he’s going to do…now that it’s all gone.

_Gone._

Fuck.

And while part of him knows ( _knows_ ) this isn’t her fault, not really—she didn’t do it deliberately, never would have done, couldn’t have figured it would all shift this way—he cannot be that logical right now. He tries, but it all fades out into the disappointment, the defeat, the _resentment…_ it’s a deep black hole sucking him in and he can’t shake it. None of it.

“You should go,” he tells her, and the words sound cold and dull, even to his own ears. “I’m not…I’m not going to be kind right now, and I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.”

She pales visibly at that. “Like what?”

It’s not worth considering. It’ll only give him ideas. The deep black hole does not need any more ideas. “Just…go, Lily. Please.”

“Wait.” She moves toward him, hand outstretched. “James…I don’t want to leave it like this. I know—I know I don’t…but if you’d just—”

“ _No_.” He jerks away. He doesn’t want to be touched. He already feels like his mind is on a high-speed broom he doesn’t remember mounting, and it’s too much. “I can’t ‘just’ anything. _Go,_ Lily. I’m asking you to go. You’re not going to get what you want this time.”

“Stop _saying_ that!” she rails. “This is _not_ what I wanted! You know this isn’t what I wanted! You’re not being fair—”

“ _Fair?”_ James almost laughs it. “Fair. Oh, that’s rich. Because so much of this is _fair_.”

“Well, that’s half the bloody point, isn’t it?” she snaps out angrily before she can catch herself. He whips around to face her, but she’s already clammed back up. The flash of fury is gone. Her face is merely pinker. She presses her lips together in a dark, grim line, then sighs, fitting her shoulders back. A regal martyr, like bloody Marie Antionette atop the scaffold. “Fine. You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll…I’ll go. I—”

“No. You don’t get to leave on that.” He stalks toward her. “Finish what you were going to say. What’s half the bloody point?”

The queen shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“James.”

“What? Silent now, are you?”

“That—”

“LILY EVANS: REPORTER, INTERFERER, COWARD.”

She gasps. Never call a Gryffindor out on their honour. It’s the lowest of blows. James is cross enough to do it anyway, in the most spiteful, petulant way.

It gets him his answer. He wishes he felt better for it.

“You— _God_. Fine. You want the truth?” The pink of her cheeks burns red. Her green eyes spit fire at him. “Fair? Do you know what’s truly not _fair?_ This…fucked up, mind-boggling game Puddlemere’s been playing with you—that you’ve been _letting_ them play with you.” She marches on him with every word, finger jabbed at his chest. “Honestly, what kind of club makes roster decisions on this kind of bloody whim? Who the hell has ever heard of dropping a player because he _may_ have shown interest in some other team after weeks— _months—_ of having been toyed with like a cat after string? Who _puts_ himself in that position to be toyed with?”

“I’m not being _toyed_ with,” James defends hotly. “This is the politics of the sport. It’s how things are. Don’t be naïve—”

“ _I’m_ being naïve?” Lily laughs humourlessly. “James. Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m—”

“You are the single biggest player on the market right now. You broke scoring records in your rookie seasons. Half of the bloody sport is here at this _dull_ exhibition just to see what _you_ do.” She’s glaring fiercely at him now, her fists clenched. “You have all the power here, and if you didn’t have so much _stupid_ pride wrapped up in this nonsense with Puddlemere, you damn well would have opened your eyes and realised that by now!”

They’re compliments, at the base level. Some part of James registers that, might be pleased at some other time, in some other place. But she’s wielding them like serrated shrapnel, and he feels them hit as such—cutting and biting and deadly.

He shakes his head, firm as granite. “You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?” she asks. “That you’ve had this hard-on for Puddlemere for years? That you’ve stupidly let them know it? That they treated you _horribly_ two years ago, are treating you even more horribly now, and yet you’ve somehow continued to let them, like the kicked dog slinking back to his master thinking he’ll suddenly get affection?”

Well, _that_ certainly isn’t a compliment.

“Lovely, Lily,” James mutters coolly. “A kicked dog. Flattering.”

“You don’t need to be flattered. You need to be slapped up the head.” She looks as if she might be open to volunteering to give it to him, but she keeps talking instead. “Do you know what the worst part about all of it is, though? The truly worst, most awful part?” Her lips pinch. “Even if you got what you wanted—even if Puddlemere _deigned_ to select you after all this…this…utter _bullshit_ …you would be so fucking _miserable_ and you don’t even realise it.”

What is she even… _Christ._ James is starting to feel a bit more like that kicked dog now, but he can’t seem to stop coming back for more. He’s an utter masochist. Or he’s got too much pride to let her go on as if she’s already won the argument.

She’s wrong. _So_ wrong.

“What’s that mean?” he bites. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Why has Helen Dare left the team after only two seasons?” Lily challenges. “She broke her contract, you know. She was signed for four.”

_She was signed for four?_

James hadn’t known that. Not…exactly.

“She has that wrist thing,” he offers stiltedly, evasively. “She…I don’t know. What does it matter?”

“Because Puddlemere’s offense is a two-man show,” Lily shoots back. “And this spot they have on offer? This third position you’re so bloody _desperate_ for?” She snorts. “At best, it’s a lowly back-up singer.”

She’s mixing her metaphors now, but James still recoils, nonplussed. “What are you on about? That is not—”

“Dawson and Leeds have been playing together for nearly a decade.” She crosses her arms over her chest, tossing out the fact. “They have their strategies set, have for years, and they’re paid too bloody much and have been at this too bloody long to change that now. Gebhardt was a content third for so long because he played his best as an assist Chaser, but Helen Dare—and _you_ —” she emphasizes, “deserve so much better than to fly around up there, match after match, acting like a two-bit opening sideshow to someone else’s carnival.”

Oh, for Merlin’s _sake_.

Now he’s a two-bit _sideshow_?

James wishes— _truly_ wishes—the witch wasn’t such a writer. The words paint an effective, unflattering picture, and everything in him rebels against it.

“That’s…simplistic at best,” he condemns, because he doesn’t need her input to make him feel like a clown—not when he’s already quite convinced he’s the rubbish butt of a very bad, very long joke. “I mean, yes, Dawson and Leeds are…but the whole _point_ of bringing on new players is to shake up a strategy! It might take a bit to find a new stride, but—”

“They don’t _want_ a new stride! They want a pretty face they can sell until Dawson or Leeds gets tired or injured, at which point maybe— _maybe_ —they’ll let you play the way you ought have been from the start. The way you _deserve_. How do you not _see_ that?”

Because there was nothing to see. She is desperate, wild-eyed and adamant, but he’s vehement too. She’s plucking details and history and reordering them in her own way—so like a bloody _journalist_ —and James isn’t buying this story. He’s strumming up his Letter to the Editor, cancelling his subscription, burning the pages in a metal rubbish bin, and using the fire to warm the heated ire of his staunch righteousness. He isn’t deluded enough to think she was pulling this all from nothing—Dawson and Leeds _were_ a two-man offense, but the idea that the club would recruit him to play arbitrary handmaiden to their veterans’ highborn whims was ludicrous and small-minded.

She just didn’t get it. She was biased, ill-informed, couldn’t see the forest for the trees.

“Were you even listening to yourself this morning? When you were talking to Sam Lockley?” she asks next, taking a step closer, talking even quicker. “James…you _love_ to play with a team. You positively _thrive_ on it. Marcie York and Padrig Dooster both play on three-man offenses. Falmouth and Kenmare train their Chasers that way. _That’s_ why you’ve been having so much fun out there this week, when you’ve gotten out of your head long enough to enjoy it. You are not going to get that with Puddlemere. You _won’t._ ”

James is through with this. He doesn’t need to hear it anymore. “That is _not_ —”

“Yes, it is!” she cries, and catches his arm. He glares down at her hold, but she doesn’t let go. Refuses to relent. She will not be dissuaded. “It’s exactly like that, and if you’d just _think_ about it for a second, you’d see I’m right. For Merlin’s sake, Puddlemere’s already proven they’re willing to cast you aside at the smallest transgression—and now you’re willing to play last fiddle on the pitch, as well? For _what_?” She huffs, shakes her head. “Just to salve your wounded pride from the blister of their last rejection? To teach them a lesson about passing you up the first time around? Prove that you can make them want you? That’s _done,_ James. You’ve won that battle a dozen times over. But you seem to be the only one too blind to see that!”

“This is all a really fine assessment, Miss Evans,” James intones flatly, bristling, burning. He wrenches his arm from her grasp, feels the scald of her touch, even now. “So glad you’re suddenly the expert on everything I want and need. Six days and one paltry interview later. That’s all Lily Evans requires to have my whole fucking life figured out, hm?”

“I didn’t say that,” Lily objects. “I’m only telling you—”

“Telling me what? That you know better than I do? That I can’t see beyond my own pierced ego? And why _now_? If you were so ruddy _certain_ about all of this—could peg me and my trussed-up pride so _incalculably_ from the start—you didn’t think it was worth having a bloody conversation about? _Before_ taking matters into your own hands and selling me off to Falmouth?”

“I wasn’t selling you off to Falmouth!” she cries, and James knows it’s true, that she never meant for it to happen that way. But the argument is falling flatter now. Everything is falling flatter. There’s a faint buzzing in his ears. “I told you—”

“It doesn’t matter what you told me,” he cuts in tiredly, because suddenly he _is_ tired. So damn _tired_. He rubs at his eyes beneath his glasses. “None of this…I don’t even know why we’re arguing about it. None of it is relevant. It’s over. Puddlemere’s gone. I don’t…I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It won’t fix it. Puddlemere’s gone.”

And there it is: the unbreakable truth at the root of all this. The bleak reality at the end of whatever runaround war of wills they’ve now found themselves in—this battered land of good intentions and bitter results and whatever else can be carefully salvaged from his wayward field of tattered dreams. James doesn’t want to row anymore. He doesn’t have it in him. Underneath it all, she _is_ undeniably right about one thing: James is nothing if not his pride. She’s challenged it, dented it, left it scuffed on the floor being stomped over by her hustling feet, and he’s smarting too much already to stand here begging for more. She’s reducing his whole bloody career to some vague assumptions that she’s made, some middling game of cat and mouse, of spurned offers and blind egotism, and everything in him objects to the affront, but he’s at a loss of what can be gained in fighting it.

She isn’t right. That, he absolutely knows, because she can’t _possibly_ be right. But he’s not certain what kind of victory comes from proving that to her.

He’s honestly got nothing left to prove to her.

“James.” She’s tired, too. Dented. Scuffed. In all the rowing, her hair has toppled down around her shoulders. Her dress is wrinkled. Her eyes are dull and desperate. It’s yet more ways they’re evenly matched, but James isn’t certain what to do with that anymore.

So he doesn’t even try. He shakes his head instead.

“Lily…I just…”

She doesn’t make him go on. She stiffens a bit. Nods. Seems to understand what he—even now—can’t quite bring himself to request again.

“Right. I’ll…I’m going to go.” She tilts up her chin, takes it with dignity. She’s all dignity, Lily Evans is, even now, in this. He watches her take the tentative step forward. A second. A third. She’s cleared part of the room and comes to a stop beside him, and James wants to reach out and grab her hand, say _I don’t know how to make this right yet. I don’t know what’s happened here. It’s all gone to hell so quickly. Let me figure out how to make it right and then we can just…_ but he can’t even finish the sentence in his thoughts. Because he doesn’t know. They can just…what? It’s all turned so quickly and he hasn’t had time to catch up. She’s said too much and he knows too little and if they keep at this like that, James knows he’ll do or say something stupid. Something cruel or belittling or…whatever it would be. She doesn’t deserve that. She’s wrong—Merlin, she’s done _so_ much wrong here—but she doesn’t deserve that. It doesn’t need to end that way.

Fucking hell, he doesn’t want it to end that way.

Doesn’t want it to end at _all_. Period.

But he can’t bloody _think_.

And, in the end, he doesn’t know if he can trust her.

Damn it, how is he supposed to _trust_ her?

“You—” She pushes out the word, still standing there beside him, unable to properly speak, but apparently unwilling to move yet either. He glances down at her—Lily Evans, Junior Quidditch Correspondent, pretty and perfect and… _pulverizing_ his life. “James, you are the best player—the best _person_ —I have ever…” She swallows that. Shakes her head. “I am so sorry,” she whispers instead. “I took this from you. I didn’t mean to…but somehow I did anyway, and I am so sorry that I didn’t…that I didn’t talk to you before, that you didn’t get the chance to…” Her hand touches him. Only for a moment. A second. But it’s enough. “You will never understand how sorry I am,” she finishes. “For all of it. I just…I want you to know that.”

She rises up, busses an impossibly light kiss against his cheek.

_I know,_ he wants to say, because he does.

_I’ll fix this,_ he’d insist, but he’s rather certain he can’t.

_You can’t be right_ , _because I don’t know what it would mean if I were wrong._

_It’s gone. It’s gone and you took it and I’m not getting it back._

_Don’t go._

He wants to say so much of this— _all_ of it, more—but he can’t even manage a word. And before his mouth can muster out a paltry syllable, Lily is already past him, out the door, and closing it behind her.


End file.
